White Russian Roulette
by LindaO
Summary: As the Cold War comes to an end, Robert McCall and Lily Romanov undertake a simple little mission turns out to be anything but, while Control's obsession with Lily's dark past threatens to tear their relationship apart for good.
1. Chapter 1

Each game

of chess

Means there's

one less

Variation

Left to be played.

Each day

got through

Means one

Or two

Less mistakes remain to be made …

"Chess"

* * *

Lily Romanov was not at all pleased to be in prison again.

She slouched in the middle of the bunk, her shoulders against the cold stone wall. Her feet dangled over the side. She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned fiercely.

Her feet swung in random circles, then kicked straight out, then swung again, as she alternated between being bored and being furious. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She'd been in the country twelve hours when they picked her up. Twelve _hours_. She wondered bitterly if that was some kind of Company record. It was probably in the top ten, anyhow. The schmucks back in New York would tell her when she got there, she was sure. Probably repeatedly.

She wondered who'd won the pool. They'd deny it, but there was always a pool. Schmucks. She loved her co-workers – except when she hated them. Right now she hated them.

Control would be climbing the walls, in his own tightly-wound way. It didn't help, knowing that. It didn't help, either, that she was half-listening for a Panzer division or an air strike to rescue her. He'd promised he wouldn't do anything stupid, but if he thought she was in danger, she wasn't entirely sure he'd keep that promise. Neither of them had expected to test it this soon.

She'd told them she wanted to go to Montenegro. She'd told them she didn't want to go to Pristina. All the smart boys in ties – him included – had overruled her. Served him right if he was worried now.

She was not in any danger. She was fairly sure of that.

She'd had a bad minute or two, when the iron hand landed on her shoulder, when they'd put her in handcuffs, thrown her in the car. A minute or two of sheer terror, and a fear that she was going to have a full-blown panic attack. She'd fought it back, and the longer she was in custody, the more relaxed she became. The local police had booked her into the jail on her fake passport – Laurie Webster, her old favorite, her lucky one – without a second glance. They'd frisked her, but she'd had more thorough pat-downs in singles bars. Then they'd shown her to a cell – with a window, no less – and left her alone.

One interpretation was that the locals were detaining her until the secret police arrived, when the real rough stuff would begin. But they'd seemed much too relaxed for that. The window in the cell was encouraging. The alternative interpretation was that they'd picked her up for the jeans. She'd had twelve pairs in her big pack, which she'd left at the youth hostel. That weasely boy in the next bunk had turned her in; she'd put money on it. Black marketeering, especially on a small scale, wasn't uncommon, and there was some chance they'd confiscate the jeans and kick her loose. Lily was more and more inclined to take this second view. Especially since they'd left her her shoes.

She kicked her feet straight out and considered her sneakers with satisfaction. They were Nikes, a couple years old. She'd found them at a resale shop, and they were without question the most comfortable shoes she'd ever owned. The fact that she still had them – laces and all – said an awful lot about her current situation. In the States, if they'd put her in a cell even for jaywalking, they would have taken the shoelaces. The locals hadn't even looked at them, damn sure hadn't examined the shoes closely. She wondered if Superglue wore off in body heat.

Lily let her feet swing again. She twisted her hair absently, and the color startled her. She kept forgetting that she'd had it dyed blond – California beach blond, to go with the suntan she'd gotten on the beach while she was rehabbing. She wasn't going to pass for European, with that tan. She'd gone for all-out tourist instead.

He liked her blond. But he'd liked her as a brunette, too. A man of truly eclectic taste. It was probably better not to dwell on that just now.

Now that the terror had subsided, she was bored. Really, really bored.

She looked around the bare, gray cell. Welcome back, she thought, to the glamorous world of espionage.

* * *

Control sat absolutely still, his eyes closed, his hands folded. He listened to the vein just behind his left eye throb. He was quite sure that he could actually hear it. "She has the plans on her?" he asked quietly.

"She met Shelby at nine a.m., local time," Simms reported. "She was in custody at nine-twenty. She didn't have time to dump them."

"They're on microfilm," Walker offered. "They should be pretty easy to hide."

Control opened his eyes narrowly and glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty in New York now; half past one in Yugoslavia. Four hours since her arrest. Probably too soon for any news. "Unusual activity?"

"The local police went to the hostel and got her pack."

"Prior to the arrest?"

Papers shuffled. "About the same time."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Hmmm." He closed his eyes again. Things were getting absolutely ridiculous in the Balkans. He'd wanted to send Lily just to recon, to get a sense of the situation and recommend changes. But Shelby still had those damn power plant plans, and they had to be retrieved. Romanov, of all people, should have been able to snag the plans and get out.

They'd been just too clever, to send her to Pristina, to make Shelby meet her there. Lily'd argued against it, but they'd overruled her. Now she was in a local jail. In Pristina, a city she knew like the back of her hand.

Maybe the whole situation was impossible, after all.

Or maybe she was just rusty. Control was abundantly aware that he only pretended to be objective where Lily was concerned.

He opened his eyes and straightened up. "All right. Where's Roelen?"

Russo consulted his papers. "About two hours out."

"Have him assemble his team. Bring them in close. Hold there."

They shared looks around the table. Control could almost hear their thoughts: Here we go again. It had been the same when Shelby and Jones were picked up. Put together a retrieval team; have them stand around waiting for developments. Hopefully this would end as well as the earlier incident had. "We wait, gentlemen. Wait and see."

They could wait in the office. Control was heading out. He had one more agent to dispatch, and one more source of information to check – one that his lieutenants must never, never find out about.

* * *

The little gray man opened her cell door and came in, pushing a rickety cart of books in front of him. He closed the door behind him and locked it, then pocketed the ring of keys. "Hello, I am Gustav," he said fluently, though with a heavy accent.

The girl looked him up and down. His shirt was gray, and his pants, and his shoes – although they were ancient, they may have been a different color once. His hair was gray, and his skin had a grayish cast. He hadn't seen the sun in years. Yet this prisoner – he was obviously a prisoner – had keys. He was skinny, but didn't seem undernourished, and his posture, for his apparent age, was still good.

Lily slid to her feet. "I'm Laurie," she said, offering her hand. "Laurie Webster."

He took her hand and bowed formally over it. "It is a great pleasure to meet you." He gestured to the cart. "We thought that you might like something to read during your stay. The selection is quite old, I'm afraid. I don't suppose you read Croatian?"

"No," she lied easily. "I had a little French in high school, that's about it."

The old man nodded solemnly. "In my country, children learn three, four languages in their primaries. But it is different in America, is it not?"

"Yeah, I guess." As the old man shuffled through the books, she shifted from one foot to the other. "Look, am I going to be here a long time? I was supposed to catch a plane like two hours ago …"

"You are in jail, you know."

"Well, yeah, I know, but can't I just … you know, post bail or something? I mean, they can't just hold me here forever, can they?"

The old man's eyes pierced hers. "I have been here twelve years," he said quietly. "They can hold you for as long as they wish."

"But I'm an American citizen," she protested. "Can't I call the embassy or something? My dad has lots of money, he can get me a lawyer or whatever, if I can call him."

"Perhaps something can be arranged," the old man agreed slowly. He drew out a battered little book. "French, yes?"

Lily took the book and sat down heavily. "Thank you."

"I do not mean to frighten you, miss. You are not in my situation. Far from it. I am, in their eyes, a criminal of the worst sort. You, on the other hand, are merely misguided."

"I've heard that before."

"I will tell the commissar of your wish to use the telephone. Perhaps a meeting can be arranged, and we will see about getting you on your way. All right?"

"But my plane tickets …"

"There's nothing to be done about that," Gustav assured her. "Just try to be patient. Be polite to the commissar. He is not an unreasonable man. Perhaps he could see his way to release you with just a fine."

"A fine? You mean a br…"

The old man's hand shot up in warning. "I do not know. Perhaps, if your offense were minor enough, a fine would be sufficient. It is for the commissar to decide that."

Lily nodded. "I understand." She looked down at the book. It was nothing she'd ever heard of. "Thank you for bringing this. I'll try to chew through it."

"If the mice have not beaten you to it," Gustav answered encouragingly. "I will see if there is anything in English in the library. I believe I have some old magazines. I'll try to come back later."

He turned to go. "Hey, Gustav," Lily called, in full American naiveté, "if you're such a dangerous criminal, how come they let you have the keys?"

"Oh, I am not dangerous, miss. I am only subversive."

"You're a political prisoner?"

He nodded. "I suppose you would call me that, yes. As you can see, I am no danger to anyone. So, I have the library, I visit with the prisoners who pass through, meet lovely young women on occasion – in all, it is not a bad way to serve a sentence."

"But when will they let you go?"

"Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps never."

He left before she could ask any more questions.

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer, wearing only a pair of shorts, snapped his front door open. "What?"

Control looked at him, at the hand that the younger man kept concealed behind the door, the gun hand. "Lily."

"She ain't here."

"She's been arrested. In Pristina."

"When do I leave?" Kostmayer glared at him, daring him to tell him no.

"Tomorrow morning, if she's not out by then." Control handed over a packet of papers: tickets, passport, visa, currency, sit rep.

"Why wait?"

"It may be nothing, a local matter. We wait and see. For one day."

Kostmayer scowled at him. "One day. That's it."

"Yes, it is." The older man spun on his heel and started away.

"Hey, Control," Mickey called after him as he left, "I was a lot happier when I could pretend you didn't know where I lived."

Control walked away without comment.

Mickey shook his head and carried the packet back to his kitchen. He turned on the coffee pot – obtained as a concession to having overnight company – and tore the report open.

Annie Keller drifted into the kitchen, wearing his t-shirt and nothing else. "Mickey? What's wrong?"

He folded the paper casually and shoved it aside. "Nothing. That was Control."

"You have to go."

"No. Well, maybe, tomorrow. It may be nothing. Or not. I'm sorry."

She slid her arms around him. "You don't have to be sorry."

Mickey kissed her deeply. "But I _am_ sorry, believe me."

"Is it dangerous?"

"I don't think so," he answered. It was a half-truth, at best; he hadn't read the sit rep yet. But he knew about the other arrests in the region, strictly local stuff. "Just your basic damsel in distress."

Annie dimpled at him. "Is she pretty?"

"Well, yeah."

"You could have lied, you know."

Mickey shook his head. "I try not to lie to you if I can avoid it. Lily's pretty, and she's my friend. But I'm in love with you."

Anne caught his face and kissed him, and asked no more questions. "Come home safe."

"I will. I promise."

* * *

Lily gave up on the French book halfway through. It was a stupid book, a trite little romance about an insipid woman who couldn't decide between her respectable, suitable beau and the dark, dangerous rake who stirred her lust. It was no decision at all, as far as Lily was concerned; she'd have gone for the dark one every time. Dark men were so much more interesting.

She didn't know if she was being observed, so she had to pretend to stumble through the little book with her high school French. In truth, she could have ripped through it in half an hour. After a while, reading it grew more tedious than doing nothing. She tucked the little book under the flat pillow on the bunk and sat back, kicking her feet again.

A guard brought her dinner. She watched him quietly as he entered the cell. He left the door standing open while he completed his task, turned his back on her to set the tray down. She was sure, then, that this was a local matter. They weren't afraid she'd try to escape, had no inkling that she maybe could take the guard out.

Maybe. She was a courier. She'd had the basic Company training, but she hadn't used it in years. Maybe, in a pinch, she could have gotten past him. But this wasn't even close to that pinch. For the moment, she simply observed.

The food wasn't great, but it was acceptable, and probably the same thing the guards were eating. As she finished, Gustav returned with his little cart. Again he let himself in and pocketed the keys. "You've finished?" he asked.

"Yes. Thanks."

He put her tray on the top of the cart. "And your book?"

Lily shrugged. "About half. I'm starting to remember my French, finally. Do you need it back?"

"No, no. You keep it until you have finished. No one is waiting for it, I assure you."

"Not many prisoners, huh? It's pretty quiet."

Gustav shook his head. "Here below, only the holding cells for the local police. A few drunks, one petty thief. Above, where my cell is, there are thirty or so prisoners. Not like in the old days. There was a time when there were hundreds of prisoners here. Now, it is just us few."

"Did the others get set free?"

He considered her for a moment, and Lily could see what he was seeing: pretty blond American girl, dumb as a post. Well, that's what he was supposed to see, wasn't it? "Some went free," he answered slowly. "Others were moved to other places. Some died."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"These things happen in life. Now I have my choice of cells. I have a lovely view of the back gate, my cell is just above it, and so I can see always who comes and goes."

Lily nodded. "That must be, uh, nice."

"It is still a cell." He bent, brought a stack of magazines from the bottom of the cart. "I've found these for you."

The woman took them. Redbook, Good Housekeeping, McCall's. American magazines, well thumbed, ten years old. Not what she expected in a Yugoslav prison. "Where did you get these?"

"My wife," Gustav told her. "Her sister lived in Chicago, she would send them to her. They've been gone through by the authorities, of course, and they are quite old. History, for you. But perhaps they will help you pass the time."

"Thank you. Thank your wife for me."

"She has gone on now. Last month, she passed."

"I'm so sorry."

"She was old, as I am."

"Did you get to see her?"

The old man nodded. "Every week she would visit me. She baked me pastries, brought me books. I wrote to her, every day, and each week I would pass her my letter and she would pass hers to me. It was not as a marriage should be, but it was much better than when I was first imprisoned."

"I'm very sorry," Lily said again.

"Well. Well. You read her magazines, it would please her. The commissar has a budget meeting now, but perhaps soon you can make your telephone call."

"Thank you," Lily called after him as he left.

The old man didn't look back.

* * *

Control glided up behind Becky Baker unobserved, unheard, no great feat in the noisy restaurant kitchen. She was working with a pastry bag over a tray of absurdly elaborate tarts. They looked to him like raspberry with some kind of yellow custard, topped with stiff whipped cream. Entirely too sweet for his taste. The tricky part, he observed, was getting the whipped cream just right, enough but not too much, and in perfect swirls. She had her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrating intensely.

He waited impatiently until she finished, then touched her arm. As he'd expected, she jumped about a foot. At least she didn't have a knife this time.

"Sorry," he said, not very sincerely.

"H-h-how do you d-do that? Nobody else can do that."

He opened his hands in a shrug. "It's what I do."

"W-what do you want?"

He brought the lighter out of his pocket. "Please."

Becky nodded, touched a fingertip to the lighter. Shook her head. "I-I can't. You're too w-w-worried."

"Would it help if I left the room or something?"

"N-n-no. It doesn't work that w-w-way."

Control frowned fiercely. He tried to make himself think logically. He had no reason to think that Lily was in any imminent danger. Shelby and Jones had both been arrested in the same region and released, unharmed. It was probably nothing more than a local shakedown; if anyone could have ditched the plans, it was her. He was overly concerned because of her last prison experience. This was an entirely different situation, halfway around the world from the last one …

"T-there," Becky said encouragingly. Her fingers touched the lighter again. "There it is." She took her hand away, frowned, mildly puzzled. "She's okay," she said. "She's just bored."

"Bored?"

"Yes." The girl walked down the galley to the walk-in cooler. "She's fine."

"Good." Control followed her into the cooler, watched as she scanned the over-stuffed racks, searching for something. "Anything else?"

"Ummm." Becky moved to another section and studied the racks again. "She's kind of, um, um, smug? About her shoes."

"Her shoes."

"Uh-huh."

Control grew impatient with the psychic's divided attention. She seemed deeply concerned about whatever she was looking for. "Can I help?"

"W-what?"

"What are you looking for?"

"Oh." Becky looked at him vaguely, then back at the shelves. "Cabbages. I need to find the cabbages."

He raised one eyebrow. Cabbages? On tarts? "Here," he said, pointing to a cardboard case. "They're right here."

She peered into the box. "No. Red cabbages."

"Here, then." The red cabbage was right next to the green.

"Oh." She took two out of the case, then turned and looked at him in confusion. "What do I need these for?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Control answered. "You were making tarts."

"Oh." Becky replaced the cabbage and walked out of the cooler.

Peculiar, Control thought, following her. She was a nice girl, but she was definitely peculiar. Cabbages. Not cabbage, cabbages. Still, she'd been reassuring about Lily. For whatever her reassurances might be worth. "Shoes?" he pursued.

"Mmmmm. Sneakers. She likes them. They're comfortable."

"She still has her shoes on?" Control persisted.

Becky frowned at him, shrugged. "Yeah."

"Do they still have the laces?"

She looked at him like he'd completely lost his mind. Shrugged bigger. "I don't know, I guess so."

"Good."

"What's the big deal about laces, anyhow?" Before he could start to answer, she held her hand up. "Forget it, forget it. Didn't mean to ask."

Control nodded in satisfaction. "Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

He had the amusing notion, as he left, that she considered him every bit as peculiar as he considered her.

* * *

Control stood at his window, glaring down at the cloud-shrouded city, his coffee growing cold in his hand, the office growing quieter around him. The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness. He should go home, he told himself. Pristina would be closed for business by now. Besides, it might be days before they heard anything. He'd done all he could; there was nothing left but to wait.

Simms came through the open door, grinning. "Laurie Webster's on the phone," he announced. "She's asking to talk to her father. You want me to take it?"

Control strode back to his desk and sat down. "I'll take it this time." He flipped the profile open before he pressed the speaker button, then the flashing line. It was unnecessary; he already knew the Webster profile. He'd helped write it.

The speaker crackled with overseas static. "Hello," Control barked at it.

"Um … Dad?"

Lily sounded nervous, but not in pain. Control had to fight the impulse to slump in relief. "Where the hell are you?" he snarled. "If you missed your plane, the least you could do is call. Do you know how long the car waited at the airport for you?"

"I'm, um, I'm in jail."

"What?"

"I'm in jail."

"Where?"

"In Pristina."

"Pristina? You're still in Yugoslavia?"

"I'm sorry."

"What did you do this time?"

There was a little pause. "I, uh, I had a bunch of jeans, and the police think I was going to try to sell them."

Control glanced up. Simms was still hovering in the doorway. He gestured impatiently to the chair, and the younger man sat quietly. "How many pairs of jeans, Laurie?" he growled.

"About twelve."

"Twelve."

"Yeah."

"You had twelve pairs of jeans, for a four-day trip, and you're surprised the police thought you meant to sell them."

"They're just jeans, Daddy …"

"Because I don't give you enough spending money, is that it? What were you going to spend it on?"

"I wasn't … I mean, I just …"

"Damn it, Laurie, I've warned you before, if you don't stop doing these irresponsible …"

"I just wanted some money I didn't have to account for, okay? I just didn't want to have to tell you where I spent every damn dime!" Her voice cracked, and Control could hear someone muttering to her at the other end. He could see her in his mind, sitting in some hapless official's office with real tears in her pretty eyes, half a brave pout on her pretty mouth. Playing them like a concerto.

He sighed audibly. "How much is this going to cost me?"

"I don't know. They're talking about filing charges." There was a brief pause. "Can you … can you come and get me?"

"Can I _what_? You know I can't come and get you, who would run the business? Your brothers? Damn it, Laurie, if we can't get you bailed out over the phone you're just going to have to rot in that jail. I don't have time to be running halfway around the world because you want a little extra spending money!"

There was another pause on the line, and Control thought he caught muffled sobs. Keep it up, girl, he thought, they'll be bringing you lobster for dinner. Just as long as this unseen bureaucrat didn't try to offer some more intimate comfort …

"Laurie, stop crying," he said, more gently. "Stop it. We'll work something out. Hold on a minute."

He pushed the mute button on the speaker. "Have we got a covert in Pristina? Anybody we can send in a suit?"

Simms shook his head. "Roelen's there, but even dressed up he's not … "

"No," Control agreed. Roelen was a fine, fine soldier, but you couldn't dress him up enough to pass him as a lawyer.

"Shelby's still in the area. But after Montenegro, I don't know."

Control closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the time pass, trying to remember who was on Roelen's team – too young, too crude, no, none of them. A faint memory tickled his mind. He did know someone in Pristina, someone eminently suitable. Someone smooth. Someone undoubtedly willing, though it would cost him. He sighed, not liking the option. Too much history there. But at least it _was_ an option.

He opened his eyes, tapped the phone back on. "Laurie, you still there?"

Sniffle. "Yes, Dad."

"All right. You just sit tight and keep your mouth shut. The firm has a representative there in town. I'll send him over; we'll get this cleared up. But you keep your mouth shut, understand? Don't make this worse than it already is."

"Okay, Dad."

"When you get out, you get on the next plane and come straight home. Do you hear me? No stops, no side trips, straight home."

"Okay."

"And then we are going to have a long, long talk about this."

"What are you going to do," she half-mocked, "ground me?"

"No, darling," Control assured her. "You're too old to be grounded. And maybe you're too old to be getting an allowance as well, hmm?"

"Daddy, you can't cut me off, it's not fair …"

"We'll discuss it when you get here," he warned. He cut off the phone.

Simms looked at him across the desk. "She does that very well."

"Yes, she does," Control agreed.

"So who are we sending in?"

Control scowled. "An old … asset."

"Retired?"

"Fired." He reached into his desk drawer for a slender black address book. "Update Roelen, will you? Tell him to stand down, but stand by. Shut the door on your way out."

"Got it."

As the younger man left the office, Control flipped open the book. When the door finally shut, for the first time all day, he let himself grin.


	2. Chapter 2

Lily lay on her bunk in the semi-darkness of prison night. The cellblock was nearly silent; across the hall, a couple guards played cards and several cells down a drunk snored occasionally, but otherwise it was quiet. She'd always been able to sleep anywhere, but now she didn't even try. To sleep, perchance to dream; she wasn't about to risk it. She knew damn well what she'd dream about.

So she lay awake instead. This was much better, she thought calmly, than the last prison she'd been in. That hadn't really been a prison, but a church basement, and the nights had been the worst. Nights were when Santoro and his men came. But here, the guards left her alone. She was safe in the promise of her 'father's' money.

She grinned wryly in the dark. The phone conversation with Control had been fascinating, both for what was said and what wasn't. She'd expected to talk to Simms, but it was achingly good to hear his voice. Control had sounded very relieved. But he'd also sounded angry, well beyond acting as the angry father really called for. There had been just that subtle note about his words that told her – and no one else – the he was really, really pissed.

He'd get over it. Eventually. She had a notion or two how to make it up to him, if he'd let her ...

Lily had to smile to herself at that thought. He was back in her blood, there was no question about it. It was worse than it had ever been before. She wanted him, in the most basic, carnal of ways. Her body wanted him, simmered with wanting him. But there was more to it than that. Her whole soul ached for him.

They were back together, against all reason and against all possible odds. Not only reunited, but committed. I get to keep him, Lily thought, amazed and astonished all over again. _I get to keep him._

It should not, she mused, still be this much of a surprise. He'd said as much at the cabin, from the time she drifted out of the Scotch-flavored haze, that he was hers. He'd said it every time he came to Florida to see her. But somehow she hadn't quite taken it in, until she got back to New York, until she could be with him completely, until there were promises and a heart-stopping emerald. _I get to keep him._

The reunion continued to be wonderful – mostly. Control remained unbelievably attentive, loving, tender. He treated her as if she were some precious gem, some fragile porcelain doll, the greatest treasure of his life …

Which was all well and good, up to a point. But, Lily thought, flopping over on her back, that point had come and gone. He was still so maddeningly careful with her, in bed and out. She couldn't get him to relax, couldn't get him to let his guard down. She understood his caution, but understanding didn't make it any less aggravating. She wanted her old lover back.

Control had been the best lover she'd ever had. She'd correctly guessed, when she first set out to let him seduce her, that his age gave him experience. She had not expected that he'd be such a libertine. There didn't seem to be anything he didn't know about lovemaking, and almost nothing, within the strict limits of their secret relationship, that he hadn't or wouldn't try. He was utterly unshockable, unflappably open; what should have been depravity was distilled in his bed to erotic celebration. She had learned more from him, that first glorious week in Budapest, than she'd learned from all her other lovers combined.

The other surprise had been that he was an unabashed sensualist. He had a taste for fine things – excellent whiskey, elegant cigars, sheets with heavy thread counts, fresh cream in his coffee, silk-blend shirts. But there were other sensations that had no price, sensations that he reveled in just as joyously. That third day of the blizzard, or maybe the fourth, when he'd thrown open the window so that the chill blast of the air drove their nude bodies close to the heat of the fire, and each other. When he'd scooped a handful of snow off the windowsill and …

Lily thrashed onto her side. She was not going to think about that, she told herself sternly. Especially not knowing when she'd be with him, when she could revisit that particular sensation. There was not usually snow in New York in May, but there were snow cones to be had, frozen daiquiris, other things …

Control would indulge that whim without hesitation, she was sure. She need only say and it was hers. He was _still_ the best lover she'd ever known. The problem was that while he was so carefully taking care of her, he wouldn't let her reciprocate. He wouldn't let himself enjoy it, except in the most basic biological way. He was so intensely concerned about her that he never let his own guard down for a minute. Never let himself off his own leash. The first time it had been, probably, necessary. The second time it had been sort of sweet. After that, it was simply maddening. Knowing how much he'd enjoyed sex before, it drove Lily crazy that he wouldn't or couldn't enjoy it completely now.

It wasn't even anything she could talk to him about. She couldn't see how a conversation about how self-conscious he was in bed was going to make him any less so. If she told him that his caution only reminded her that she'd been raped, she was likely to render him actually impotent. But there had to be something she could do, some way to get through to him.

Lily sighed, pondering. She could go back and talk to her counselor again. The woman had invited her, had implied that she expected her back. But Lily also knew that it wouldn't do much good unless she told the woman the whole truth, and that was out of the question. If I tell her the truth, Lily thought, my lover could end up in Leavenworth, at best. At worst …

At worst did not bear thinking about. The risks he took to be with her were insane – his reputation, his career, his life. Very possibly his life. He was such a sensible man, the rest of the time. Down-to-earth, practical, conservative even. But he would not give her up, despite the risks. Every man had at least one weakness, they taught down at the Farm, and she was clearly his. I will not, Lily vowed to herself, let it be the one that brings him down. I will protect him, no matter what it takes. If I get to keep him, I will keep him safe. And whatever else he needs or wants, whatever he asks, I will do that, too. As long as I get to keep him.

She sighed, rolled over yet again. Her thoughts had started chasing around in circles, and she still had no solution to her love life.

Well, she thought wearily, she might have days yet to think about it.

* * *

When Gustav returned, first thing in the morning, he had no cart. Instead he carried Lily's small pack. "Come, miss, please. Here is your bag. The commissar is waiting for you."

Lily took the bag. It was much lighter than when she'd been arrested; no doubt the chocolate, the two Cokes, and all the cash had been confiscated. She didn't care. She was sprung. "Here're your magazines," she said, quickly gathering up the stack.

"Just leave them on the bunk. I'll get them later." He nodded encouragingly as she straightened up her clothes. "Perhaps, when you get home, you will tell your friends how kind Gustav Freda was to you in this place."

The girl paused. "Gustav, would it be okay if I kept this?" she asked, selecting one magazine from the stack. "I like this living room here, I thought I might try something like this in my apartment." She flipped the page open and held it out to him eagerly. "But I know it was your wife's, if you'd rather I didn't … "

"Oh, no, miss, no, I would not mind at all." He reached out and grasped the page with his right hand. "You're right, it's a lovely room. You keep this." He drew his hand away, watched as she carefully closed the magazine and tucked it into her pack. "All ready? Come, then, please. This way."

The guards took little note as he hurried her up the corridor to the commissar's office. He left her at the door. "Safe journey, miss. I hope you will remember me."

"I will. Hey, if you ever get to Chicago to see your sister-in-law, look me up, okay?"

He smiled sadly. At least this time he didn't look at her like she was an idiot. "I do not travel much, miss, but if I ever do, I will certainly look you up."

On impulse, she reached out and squeezed his arm. "Take care, Mr. Freda."

"And you, Miss Webster."

He knocked lightly, opened the door for her, closed it behind her.

Inside the office, the commissar sat facing a tall, dark-haired man. Her big frame pack, she noted at a glance, was beside the door. She was definitely about to be sprung. Both men turned to look at her. "Well, there she is, finally," the visitor said, coming to his feet.

Lily did not, quite, laugh out loud. "Hello, Mr., uh, Mr. … "

"Misek," Harley Gage prompted gently, taking her hand. "Stan Misek. Of course you don't remember, you were only a little thing last time we met. At the opera? You were with your father and your brother, I believe."

"We go to a lot of operas," Lily answered dryly. She took her hand back, fought the urge to wipe it off on her jeans. At least his accent was better these days. "Am I out yet?"

"You see how it is," Harley said, turning back to the commissar, his hands wide in apology. "She is the joy of her father's life, his only daughter, but she has no grace to her. She is his joy and his nightmare."

"Yeah, yeah," Lily said, tapping her foot. "Can we go?"

"Sit down," Harley told her firmly, gesturing to a chair against the wall, "and be quiet."

She glared at him, challengingly.

"Do you want to go home or not? Sit down."

She sat, without grace.

"You see for yourself," the commissar said, "she is in good health, if not in good spirits. We are not the monsters those in the West believe us to be."

"Of course not," Harley agreed. "Mr. Webster's company has done business here for a number of years, and he has nothing but the utmost respect for the law enforcement in this country. His daughter, unfortunately … well, you can see for yourself, she is young, quite headstrong. She did not mean to break any laws, I assure you. She is only being childish."

Lily stomped one foot down and crossed her legs, but remained silent.

"I understand completely," the commissar answered. "But you must understand, Mr. Misek, as Mr. Webster must, that we cannot tolerate lawlessness in our city, either."

"Of course not. And I can assure you, it will not happen again. Will it, Miss Webster?"

Lily glared at him.

"Laurie," Harley said sternly, "tell the commissar you won't do it again."

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," she insisted defiantly.

"She won't do it again," Harley continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "Her father will see to that, I promise you. Laurie, tell him you won't do it again."

Grudgingly, she spoke. "I'll never bring too many jeans into your country again. I promise."

"Good girl."

If she'd been close enough, Lily would have slapped him. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well," the commissar said, shuffling papers, "as it is a first offense, I do have it in my discretion not to file formal charges."

"Mr. Webster would very much appreciate that," Harley answered earnestly. He leaned forward confidentially. "Between you and me, he's going to have a job on his hands getting that one married off, even without a criminal record."

"He's not going to marry me off," Lily protested.

"Quiet, dear."

"But there must, you understand, be some sort of penalty for attempting to break the law," the older man countered.

Harley reached for his briefcase, brought it into his lap. "Of course. Mr. Webster has authorized me to pay whatever … penalty … that you think is reasonable."

The commissar eyed him, eyed the girl. Reviewed once more her expensive, brand-new mountaineering pack, her Nikes. "The fine is ten thousand dollars. American."

"Ten …" Harley coughed, "ten thousand? That's a little steep for a few pairs of jeans, isn't it?"

"Shut up and write the check, Misek," Lily snapped.

"Quiet!" he snapped back. He turned back to the commissar, his hands open again. "This is a first offense, after all. Couldn't we, hmm, reduce the fine in relation to the time she's already spent in jail?"

"Ten thousand," the commissar repeated firmly.

Harley sighed. "I'm very sorry, sir, but I'm just not authorized to pay that kind of fine. Mr. Webster had no idea it would be so high when he wired the money over." Sadly, Gage snapped the clasps on the briefcase and opened it, giving the official a glimpse over the top of the crisp American bills inside.

"Cheap bastard," Lily commented under her breath.

Gage ignored her. So did the commissar. The sight of the money had transfixed him. "Still," Harley continued regretfully, "if that is the price, I suppose I can call him back and ask. I'm just not sure he won't decide he'd rather fight this in court." He moved to close the case.

"Wait," the commissar said quickly.

Harley pushed the case back open, half-turned it toward the desk. Waited.

"How much does Mr. Webster consider fair?" the commissar asked quietly.

"Two thousand."

"Seven," the official countered.

"Three."

"Six."

Harley shrugged. "Five is all I've got." The silence hung there. "She did spend a night in jail."

The commissar shrugged. "Five. This time."

Gage shut the case and pushed it across the desk.

"Miserable cheap bastard," Lily muttered again.

The commissar opened his desk drawer, drew out her documents. "Her passport," he said, handing it to Harley, ignoring the girl. "She will, of course, leave my jurisdiction immediately."

"I will see to it personally," Gage assured him, taking the papers. He shook the man's hand. "It is a pleasure to work with you."

"And you." The official looked at the girl, who was clambering to her feet. "You will not, I trust, be visiting our city any time soon."

She sighed heavily. "Who'd want to?" she asked. She went over to her big pack and opened it. "Hey, can I have my jeans back?"

"We're going," Gage announced briskly, "now." He grabbed the girl by her arm, the pack with his free hand, and shoved her out the door.

One guard opened the front door for them. A second opened the gate. The minute they hit the sidewalk, Lily shook her arm free. She rearranged her packs, shoving the smaller one in the bigger one, and slung it over one shoulder. Harley watched her anxiously, keeping one eye on the guard. "Can we go now?" he asked, when she finally seemed settled.

Lily flipped her hair free. "Yep, let's go. You got a car?"

"No. But I'll walk you to the train station."

He took her by the upper arm again and marched her until they were out of sight of the prison. Then, as they rounded the corner, they both relaxed. "What took you so damn long?" Lily demanded.

"Nice to see you too," Harley answered. He released her arm, slid one hand to the small of her back under the pack. "How've you been, darlin'?"

"Don't darlin' me. What the hell were you doing back there?"

"What was I doing? I'm not the one who asked if I could have the jeans back."

"It was worth a try. And it was in character."

"Yeah, great. You nearly got us both tossed in a cell." They crossed the street, his hand firmer on her back in the traffic. "These guys have just started taking bribes. If we start them at ten, they'll just go up from there."

"So you got me at a discount. What if it hadn't worked?"

Harley shrugged. "I have another briefcase at home."

Lily elbowed him sharply. "Harley, we covered this years ago. You touch me there one more time, I swear to God you'll pull back a bloody stump."

"Easy, easy," he soothed, his hand sliding higher on her back. "You're out, sweetheart. You're okay now. You need to relax a little."

"If I do any 'relaxing' at all, it sure as hell won't be with you."

"I wasn't asking, Lily. You're the last woman I'd relax with. Just settle down. I'm the one who got you out, I came out of my retirement as a special favor …"

"I thought you got fired," Lily countered.

"That was just a cover story."

She snorted. "Right."

Gage sighed. "All right, look. You and me had some fun once, I probably didn't behave as well as I should have, but that's all in the past, right? And I did come and get you out of prison. So can you at least cut me a little slack here? Just stop busting my chops for one minute?"

Lily turned to look at him. He was older, and rather sadder, than he had the last time she'd seen him. And he _had_ come to get her, when no one else apparently could. "You're right, Harley." She stood on her toes, kissed him primly on the cheek. "Thank you for bailing me out."

Being Harley, he took the opportunity to put his arms around her. "Now that's more like it …"

"It's nothing like it," she answered, sliding out of his embrace.

He sighed. "All right. Come on, I'm supposed to put you on a train right now." His hand resumed in the small of her back, but went no lower. "Of course, there is a later train."

"Oh, good," she said, looking at him squarely. "Let's go back to your place and get naked."

He actually considered it. "You are gorgeous as a blond, you know that? But … I don't think so. You might come up with another grenade."

Lily laughed. "Harley, you told me that I was special, that I was the last woman you ever wanted to sleep with. I took you at your word. So naturally I was a little bent when I found you with someone else the next day."

"Bent I can see. But a grenade? I don't think rookies should have access to hand grenades."

"I don't think experienced covert ops should sleep that deeply."

"You could have killed me. Or maimed me, at the very least."

The woman tried to keep a straight face, and failed. "It was a dud, Harley."

"That's not what you said at the time."

"The grenade. It was a dud. It wouldn't have gone off even if the pin had gotten pulled."

Gage took a deep breath. "I knew that," he lied.

"Of course you did," Lily chuckled.

"It was still pretty damn mean-spirited."

"Stop bedding rookies, you won't have these problems."

"That's not the point." He shook his head. "It was a dud?"

"Yep."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"You know it was a year before I could fall asleep next to a woman after that? You about wrecked my love life … damn it, Romanov, it's not that funny."

Lily tried valiantly, but she couldn't stop laughing. "My sweet Harley, so innocent and wounded. You had it coming and you know it."

"It was a dud? You're sure?"

"Get over it, Harley. It was years ago."

"But the memory remains. Vividly."

Lily made her way across another street, headed unerringly for the train station. "What are you doing in Yugoslavia?"

"Looking for work. Speaking of which, you don't have any swing with Control, do you?"

"Sure," Lily answered dryly, "about half of the asking price. Why?"

"Well, maybe you could, you know, put in good word for me. I could use a regular paycheck again. Could you do that for me?"

"I could do that," she agreed.

"Because really, you do kinda owe me one. Even if it was a dud."

The girl shook her head and kept walking. "Harley, I don't owe you a damn thing."

* * *

Control sat in another endless meeting. Budget meetings were, in his opinion, the absolute worst part of his job. He had to pay attention, lest they cut something vital from his piece of the pie, but he also had to listen to mindless bureaucrats ramble forever. He wanted to be anywhere else. He'd even have preferred a jail cell in Pristina.

The door opened quietly, and Sue, his secretary, came in. The speaker glared at her, but she slid over to Control's seat and passed him a note, then sneaked back out. The speaker turned his glare on Control, daring him to read the note during his presentation. Control did so.

The note had only two words: _She's out_.

He folded it carefully, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and gestured to the speaker to continue.

* * *

Lily – still Laurie – struggled down the aisle of the train car past a pack of teenaged boys. Her big backpack was not heavy now, but the frame was still bulky. At the very back of the crowded car, a tall blond workman sat in the aisle seat, the window seat next to him empty. "Can I sit there?" Lily asked, gesturing.

He looked up at her, questioning, as if he spoke no English, but the gestures were international. He swung his knees into the aisle and waited while she shoved the pack under the seat and clambered in against the window. Then he turned back around, settled back, and appeared to doze.

When they were well out of the station and the tickets had been collected, the workman spoke quietly without looking at her. "You okay, flower girl?"

She continued to look out the window. "I'm fine, Teddy," she answered, also softly. "What're you doing here?"

Ted Roelen grunted. "Oh, we were in the neighborhood, thought we'd see you out of the country."

Lily smiled to herself. "Sorry, honey."

"No big deal. We live to hokey-pokey."

"Hmm?"

"Stand up, stand down, stand by, stand around," he answered. "That's what it's all about."

"Ahhh. You got new crew, I hear."

"Second row from the front, on the left."

Lily shifted her gaze that direction for a moment. "Damn, they're young."

"You all look like toddlers to me," Teddy told her. "I like the hair. You look all sixteen that way."

"Yeah. Gage couldn't keep his hands off me."

"I noticed. He does like 'em young." The tall man shifted in the seat; there wasn't really room for his legs. "So you back in the Balkans for good?"

"If I still have a job at all."

Roelen nodded. "Good. We need somebody with their head on their shoulders, instead of elsewhere. The organization's going to hell. Next time you're out, can you see about getting us our mail?"

Lily nodded. "I'll take care of it."

"And ammo. And something to read."

"Okay. Anything else?"

Ted shook his head. "I don't mean to dump on you. But it's been five weeks."

"I'll take care of it," Lily promised. "If I'm not back, I'll make sure somebody does. Don't worry about it."

"Good to have you back in the game, Lil."

"Now if I could just stay out of jail."

Ten rows ahead of them, a group of boys grew steadily louder. It had been horseplay at first, but as the trip progressed, the shouting became more serious, the cursing more frequent. Two of them finally stood up and yelled at each other, weaving precariously in the aisle. Shoving followed, and the smaller one took a swing, which wove wide of the mark.

Roelen grunted. "No," Lily said quietly.

"I know," he answered, folding his arms over his chest.

The bigger boy swung more accurately, leveling the smaller one. Then the others got into it, pulling them apart, forcing the big one down into his seat. The smaller one scrambled up and headed for the front of the car, screaming over his shoulder. "Dirty Serb! Dirty Serb!" he cried in English, and then switched to his native tongue while he fled the car.

"Well," Ted said under his breath, as the rest of the boys settled back, "there's something you don't hear every day."

"Can you even _do_ that with your mother?" Lily wondered aloud.

"Maybe if she's a gymnast."

"That's the third time I've seen that this trip," she said, very softly. "The ethnic thing. It's strange."

"The Soviets wouldn't put up with it," Roelen told her. "Now that they're pulling back, anything goes."

"I got a bad feeling about this. This whole country."

He shrugged. "Welcome to the Balkans, sweetheart."


	3. Chapter 3

Robert McCall gazed at the soup with admiration. It was French onion, in a crock, the cheese thick and perfectly baked on top. It smelled wonderful. So did the slices of hot sourdough bread that accompanied it. He broke the cheese crust with his spoon and took a bite. The soup was hot and deliciously rich. "Oooooh," he said warmly.

"I told you." Control was halfway through his own soup.

Robert looked around the tiny, dark restaurant. "So you did." He took another bite of soup. "All right then. What is it you want?"

His companion looked mildly surprised. "Your bread, if you're not going to eat it."

"You know what I mean, Control. Why the meeting? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Control answered. "Just lunch. We haven't talked in weeks." To Robert's unconvinced scowl, he added, "If I wanted something, we'd be in a dark alley or a dusty warehouse."

McCall considered, then nodded. "I suppose we would, at that. So. How's business?"

"Booming, as always. Unfortunately. The Balkans are a mess. We may have to prop up the Soviets just to keep a lid on things."

"Surely it won't come to that," Robert scowled.

Control shrugged. "It's going to get very messy, very soon."

"Yes, well, freedom does have a way of being very untidy, doesn't it?" They ate in silence for a moment. "What I really want to know, Control, is what in blazes have you done with the woman?"

"What woman?"

"You know bloody well what woman. I know she's back in the city; she left a message on my machine while I was with a client. But now she's not returning my calls, and I think you're behind that."

Control chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose. She's overseas. Working."

"You didn't waste any time throwing her back in."

"Her choice, not mine. She got arrested in Pristina."

Robert threw his spoon down. "So there is something you want."

"No, no," Control answered quickly. "She's out already. It was just a local matter, we threw a bribe, she's on her way home. She's fine."

McCall relaxed slowly, recovered his spoon, and took another bite. "She must have been very frightened."

"Becky said she was just bored."

"You went to Becky about this?" McCall demanded. "Do you know what your superiors would say if they knew you were consulting a psychic at every turn?"

"I only consult her in emergencies," Control answered defensively.

"An emergency is now being defined as any time that woman is more than ten minutes overdue. Is that it?"

His friend opened his hands. "I just got her back, Robert, I couldn't … all right, all right. I know you're right. I'll try not to bother Becky again."

"I don't think you bother her," Robert conceded. "But the things that child must read from you, and me … "

"I know."

Robert finished his soup in silence, set to wiping up the dregs with the bread. "Jail aside," he finally asked, "how is she?"

"She's extraordinary," Control answered warmly.

McCall studied him. There was a sudden glimmer in his friend, a light that was almost always absent. "You know, Control, you have the most remarkable expression on your face. I don't know that I've ever seen it before. One might almost think that you were – dare I say it – _happy_."

Control grinned, which truly was an unfamiliar expression. "She's … whole, Robert. She's herself again. She came back to life, and she came back to me."

"Ahh." Robert smiled fondly. "I told you so."

"You were the one who said I should send her away in the first place."

"Well, yes, but then I changed my mind. You should have taken her back well before this. You've only wasted your time being miserable."

Control stared at him, considered whether to take up the argument. He let it go. "I gave her the emerald."

"I'm a bit surprised she accepted it."

"It took a little persuading," Control admitted. "She's different now, Robert. The whole relationship is different."

"That's to be expected, isn't it?" McCall asked gently.

"She's much more complicated than I knew."

"A simple woman would bore you to death."

Control shook his head ruefully. "I thought I knew her so well. I thought I understood her. And now … for every one thing she says, I can hear a dozen more she doesn't say. She keeps so many things hidden."

"Rather like someone else I might name."

"I suppose you're right there, old son. It's a little unnerving, though. I'm used to knowing everything about people, and yet this one, who I should know so well – her whole past is just hints and shadows."

"Like Becky," Robert mused.

"Hmm?"

"Scott once said that as far as he knew, Becky had been born sixteen years old in New York City. She never said a word about her life before that."

"But we found out why, with her."

"It wouldn't surprise me," McCall ventured carefully, "to find out that Lily had some similar experience in her background. Some kind of abuse or betrayal, or both."

Control lowered his spoon slowly. "Where do you get that?"

"She's a tremendously strong woman, Control. Women her age – and men – don't have that strength, unless they're forged in some kind of fire."

"Nicaragua …"

"She had it before then. Haven't you ever wondered about it?"

"I never considered it in that light. I'm starting to wonder if I ever thought about the girl at all before now."

"You didn't," Robert assured him helpfully.

Control glared at him narrowly. "I know she's an orphan. She grew up in a group home in the South."

"Perhaps the loss of her parents, then."

"Perhaps. I have the impression they weren't close."

Looking at his old friend, Robert could hear the wheels of his curiosity beginning to turn. "Control, let it be. Whatever's in her past, it's _her_ past. Let her tell you about it when she's ready."

Control bristled; he didn't like being read so well. But then he nodded in concession. "And how are things on the outside?"

"Oh, the usual," McCall answered, relieved to change the subject. "A few clients, a great number of fools." He sighed. "Scott's moving in with Becky."

"That was inevitable."

"It's not how we did things in our day," Robert observed. "Still, I suppose it's better than rushing into a marriage neither of them is ready for."

"What's Kay think about it?"

"Haven't heard," Robert answered, smiling at the waitress as she replaced his soup bowl with a plate of grilled chicken. "I don't think Scott's told her."

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Control commented. As the waitress moved away, he added, "Sometimes I wish I still had her house bugged."

"You mean you don't?"

He shook his head. "How are things with Cecelia?"

"Over," McCall answered definitely. "She was much too needy."

"Ahhh."

"She wanted me to call her every night," he continued. "She wanted to talk about her day, every day, in excruciating detail. I was too distant for her. I didn't communicate my feelings well." He rolled his eyes. "I think I shall end my days as a bachelor and be glad of it."

Control paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Careful, old son. I believed that once myself, and look what happened."

"Yes, well, I shall have to be more cautious than you were." With a wry smile, Robert fell to his meal.

* * *

Romanov had telexed her field report from West Berlin, but she made her way from the airport to the office with only one brief stop. Her beloved Nikes were starting to itch her ankles.

She went in through the alley door and headed directly down the dingy stairs to the storage room. She had her own cage, a four foot square space, enclosed by steel fencing and allegedly secured with a combination lock, in a room full of identical cages. They were used by agents and couriers for storing travel gear, off-season clothes, and anything else they didn't care very much about. Many, many things disappeared from the cages.

A folded sheet of paper was taped to the front of her cage. Lily took Gustav's magazine and a bakery bag out of her big pack, then stashed it in her cage and locked it up before she took down the paper. It was a computer print-out. The header read 'Elapsed Time' and it had neat columns: agent's name, city and country, arrival date and time, arrest date and time, elapsed time. Her name and recent arrest, newly added, were highlighted. She was twenty-third on the list.

Lily growled at the paper, then scanned up to the top. The first name on the list did a great deal to assuage her aggravation. She would have to ask about that, some time.

She phoned upstairs to let them know she was in, and then went to the mailroom. The mail clerk was sitting behind his half-door, reading the paper, listening to NPR on the radio. "Hiya, sweetheart."

"Hey, Munchie," she returned, handing him the bakery bag.

"Ah, Lily, you didn't have to do this." He peered into the bag. Donuts, one glazed, one jelly filled, his favorites. Hundreds of people in this building, and she was the only one who ever thought to bring him anything, one of only a few who knew his name.

She shrugged. "Gave me an excuse to stop. What's new?"

"We're all talking about you, of course." Munchie knew tidbits of everything that went on in the building – people talked in front of the mail clerk, not thinking much about it. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. No big deal. Who won the pool?"

"Hmmm? Oh, Vince Norris again."

"Oh, that hurts. Wait'll I catch up with him."

"Be kind," Munchie advised. "He's got a brand new froglet today."

"Looker?"

"Of course. But Kermit green."

"Aren't they all?"

"Here, I got something for you." Munchie set down the bakery bag and wheeled over to the worktable. He had been a field agent once, briefly, a long time ago. He'd made a rookie mistake, paid for it with both legs and three fingers. He considered himself lucky. He rummaged about a bit and returned to the door with a new ID badge for her. "You need to initial here," he said, pointing to the sign-out sheet.

Lily signed and took the badge. "What's this for?"

"New department configuration."

"Didn't we just reconfigure departments last year?"

"That was last year."

"This has Jason's fingerprints all over it, doesn't it?" The clerk smirked and nodded. "My department's been Masured again. Do I get a raise with this?"

Munchie snorted. "Honey, you don't even get fries with that."

"So who do I work for now?"

He shrugged. "You probably got a memo. The whole division's under Simms."

"Skinny guy, the one with the brain."

"That's the one. The heir-apparent."

"Simms is the heir? I thought it was Walker." Lily asked in surprise.

"Walker's just a kiss-up. The Old Man can't stand him." Munchie wheeled back to the big rack to get her mail. "Of course, Control will die in that office before he leaves it, so the heir could change again."

"I thought dying was the only way to get out of that office."

Munchie shrugged. "Dyson got out, didn't he?" He pulled her mail down. "Uh-oh. Speak of the devil."

Romanov saw it too – on the top of the stack, the dreaded red sheet. Just an ordinary sheet of colored printer paper, bright red, folded in half and stapled. Nothing ever went on red paper unless it was dead urgent. Her name was hand-written on the outside, in Control's familiar, precise print.

"Well," she said philosophically, "either I'm fired or they want their five grand back." She took the whole stack. "Thanks, Munchie."

"Sure thing, doll. You be careful out there."

"Always am."

She walked down the hall to the lab, pulling the sheet open as she went. The contents weren't typed, either. _Re: Field report Pristina – request supplemental report all contact w/Gustav Freda verbatim ASAP my attention - C _Lily cocked her head. She hadn't actually expected him to say 'please', but at least he could have used some punctuation.

So, she thought, the librarian was known to the community. Known and of interest. Well, good. That should make the five grand a little easier to forgive.

Lily dropped off her shoes and the magazine at the lab, then wandered in her socks down to the bull pen and started on her report. Verbatim, hah – he thought she was freaking Archie Goodwin? She'd always known she'd regret turning him on to the Rex Stout books. Once she'd started typing, though, she found she could remember nearly every word Gustav had said.

She got the report done and printed, corrected and reprinted, then turned to the rest of her mail. Nothing very exciting – a pay stub for her direct deposit salary; a copy of her reassignment papers, officially transferring her back from the DC office; a memo about the new department configuration; four different medical bills, stating that her coverage had been denied again; a notice from the housing office that they were unable to locate her an apartment in New York City; another memo stating that, as she was now permanently reassigned, she needed to vacate the transitory housing apartment. And three separate copies of the 'Elapsed Time' print-out. In short, Lily thought, shoveling the whole pile into a house mail envelope, the usual crap. She kicked her feet up on desk, wriggling her stockinged toes absently, and went over the report once more.

"Hey, Twenty-Three!"

Lily glowered up at Vince Norris. "Vince, you are a miserable bastard. I can't believe you bet against me. Where's my cut?"

The mocha-skinned man dug inhis pocket and came out with a roll of bills, which he handed over. He turned and gestured to the young woman who stood behind him. "Nancy, come on in here. Nancy Campbell, Lily Romanov."

Lily smiled. Vince's new trainee was _very_ new: she was wearing a smartly tailored blue suit and sensible shoes. By day two he'd have her in jeans like the rest of the runners. Munchie was right, too – she was a stone looker. "Hi. Welcome aboard."

"You're Romanov?" Nancy said, extending her hand. "You're the one who …" She stopped dead and blushed. "I'm sorry …"

"Don't worry about it." Lily shook her hand without standing up. "Whatever you've heard, it's probably true."

The woman stepped back awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said again.

Lily shot a quick glance at the training agent, who shrugged. They could teach these kids a lot at the Farm, but they couldn't teach them tact. "You okay, Lily?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

He nodded. "Want to get a drink tonight?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Lily saw the trainee tense. She probably already knew that Vince was married. What she didn't know yet was how married he was. Vince Norris was the most devoutly married man Lily had ever met. He was assigned all the pretty young girls from the Farm because the tie boys knew he could be trusted not to hit on them. He wasn't offering to take Lily out in the hopes of taking her home. He was offering comfort, consolation, or a designated driver.

She shook her head. "Thanks, Vince, but I've got plans."

"Big date?"

"Yep. I thought I'd have myself deloused and then burn my clothes."

"Okay. But if you need me, you know where to find me, right?"

"Thanks, Vince."

He squeezed her shoulder, then moved away. "Over here," he said to Nancy, "is the lounge. I advise the you closely inspect anything that comes out of those vending machines, and be very careful where you sit."

The trainee moved after him, then looked back. "It was, uh, nice to meet you," she said uncomfortably.

"Nancy, right?" Lily kicked her feet down. "You'll be okay. Vince is the best trainer there is. Trust me, I know. He was mine. Taught me everything I know."

The rookie considered, and then almost smiled. "But … didn't you just land in jail?"

Lily sighed wryly. "Oh, you're gonna fit right in."

Nancy did smile then, and trailed after her agent.

Lily sat back, shaking her head. Was there an agent in this building who _wasn't_ a smart ass? She caught herself scratching her head, snatched her hand away and inspected her nails. She'd been kidding with Vince, but delousing probably wasn't a bad idea. Of all the things she hoped to give Control in the near future, lice wasn't one of them.

She sighed. She still hadn't come up with a solution for her love life.

From the next room, she could hear Vince talking to his trainee. "All that training at the Farm is fine. You can learn a lot in a classroom, and a lot in demonstrations and scenarios. But there comes a time when you need to just stop talking and use what you've learned."

Lily sat straight up. Of course. The answer was so simple. Stop talking. Use what you've learned. Of course. "Bless you, Vince," she called.

He looked quizzically thought the doorway. "Uh … sure, Lil."

Grinning, Lily called back upstairs and made sure they weren't looking for her. Then she took her stuff and wandered down to the Comm office. There were eight operators there, all sitting at their computers and phone banks. The shift head, Alpern, was pacing. "Hey, Romanov. Welcome back. You come for your pager?"

"My what?"

"Your pager. Didn't you get the memo? You're supposed to sign out and pager and carry it 24/7."

Lily groaned. "Um … no?"

"Jason's orders," he smirked. He walked back to a storage cabinet and retrieved a pager from a vast rack of them. "He wants to keep everybody in touch."

"I'm starting to think he's touched," the courier answered. She accepted her pager, and its instruction book. "This sucks."

"Tell me all about it."

"Can I borrow a line?"

Alpern gestured to a small closet at the back of the room. "Help yourself."

Lily went in and shut the door. The closet wasn't much bigger than phone booth. She didn't really need a secure line, probably, and the budget jerks would beef if they found out she was using it. But Alpern didn't care, and if she got caught she'd make something up. Deftly, from memory, she dialed the number.

On the second ring, he answered. "Kostmayer."

"Romanov."

"Hey, girl, how are you? I thought I was gonna have to come get you."

"I'm sorry, hon. I try to keep him off the panic button, but you know how he gets."

There was a quiet beep on the line. "Secure line?" Mickey asked in surprise. "Where are you?"

"In the office."

"Oh," he said carefully.

"You got some free time this week? Maybe over the weekend?"

"Yeah," he answered, still guarded. "What'cha need?"

"Range time."

"Oh." She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "I thought we had that fixed."

"Six months off, it went south again. In a big way."

"I bet they have firing ranges in Florida."

"Yeah, but not on the beach."

Mickey sighed. "I'll call you, we'll run out to the range."

"Uh … not the Company range. Maybe Jersey?"

"That bad, huh? Well, that explains the secure line."

"Uh-huh. I'll buy you lunch."

"Dinner."

"Okay."

There was a brief pause "Does he know?"

"Probably. But he can't say anything without admitting that he's clocking me 24/7, which he won't do. As long as I fix it."

"You mean as long as _I_ fix it."

"Whatever. Thanks, Mickey."

She hung up the phone and popped the door open. The room outside was quieter; Alpern was looking busy, and all the operators kept sneaking glances at her. No, not at her. Lily closed the door and found Control behind it, leaning on the wall, his arms crossed, his face expressionless.

"Done chatting, Miss Romanov?"

"Just calling my handler in Moscow," she answered meekly.

Control didn't bat an eye. "Give him my regards. Where's my supplemental report?"

Lily handed him the report off her stack. "Verbatim, as per request."

He looked her up and down. "Romanov, I know we're very liberal with the dress code where field ops are concerned, but we do generally require that you wear shoes in the office."

"My shoes," she reported, wagging her toes, "are in the lab, having the microfiche removed from the cuff."

"Good. Any chance you got verification of the librarian's identity?"

"Full set of fingerprints, right hand," she reported. "Also in the lab, being processed."

"You're almost worth what it cost to get you back."

"Thanks so much."

"Conference B," he snapped, and headed for the door.

As Lily trailed him after him, Alpern held a fresh cup of coffee out to her. "You need this more than I do."

"You are a true gentleman," she said, gratefully taking the cup.

Control waited for the elevator, still apparently engrossed in the report. Lily kept a careful distance between them. "So Mr. Freda is known to us?" she inquired quietly.

"He is. How'd he break your cover?"

"I don't know that he did. I'd love to ask him."

The elevator arrived. Control held the door open, followed her in. Lily stood with her back to the wall, house mail in one hand, coffee in the other. He ignored her, still reading the report, holding it in both hands.

Every elevator in the building was monitored, of course.

"Harley Gage wants his job back. He asked me to put in a good word for him."

Control turned another page. "I'm waiting."

"Um … he still has perfect hair. And his accent isn't nearly as bad as it used to be."

"That's it?"

"It was kind of a pro forma request. I didn't expect to need specifics."

"I'll take it under advisement."

Control still wouldn't look at her, and Lily still wasn't sure what that meant. Nothing in his gruff tone gave her a clue, either. Yes, they could talk later, away from here, and yes, they had to be extremely careful in the office, where every move was recorded, but he could at least give her a hint of what he was thinking, whether he was furious or wanted to kiss her right there in the elevator. Lily sighed softly. It was payback, she knew, for making him wait for the phone to ring.

"They want me out of transitory housing," Lily said conversationally.

"I saw the memo."

"They haven't found me a new place yet."

Control turned over the next page of the report without looking up. "Trying to defend the free world here, Romanov. Don't really have time for your housing problems."

"I could probably stay with Kostmayer for a while."

That at least got him to glance up, though his voice remained flat. "Call Robert. He knows everyone in town, he may have something. Do you have his number?"

"I think I …" He already had his pen out, so she held out the house mail envelope and let him scribble on it.

"Sooner is better than later," Control told her, "but he's sometimes hard to reach until after dark." He finally looked at her, dropped his eyes to the number he'd written and back up. Barely, barely smiled.

Lily glanced at the number. It wasn't a phone number. 006-425-9968. Hotel, room number, access code. She barely, barely smiled back her understanding. Glanced at the number again. 006? In the 1980 hotel guidebook, number 6 in the listing? Everything above about 20 was a five-star hotel. _A five-star?_ She glanced up again, with a tiny puzzled frown.

Control was back to reading the report, and wouldn't look at her again.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sexual favors," Control warned sternly, "are not going to get you back into my good graces."

"Of course not," Lily answered soothingly. "But you have to admit it's a fine place to start."

"I admit no …" He stopped, gasped, unwilling to cry out, at least not yet. When he could speak again, he growled, "I admit no such thing."

"You will," she predicted serenely.

She was right, of course, and Control knew it full well. He made himself relax, enjoy. Lily clearly wanted to take lead on this operation, and he was more than willing to let her. They'd played this game before. He was sure he could maintain a certain level of self-control.

She took him to the very brink, and then slowed to a crawl, let him recover. Began again. Control groaned in protest and pleasure, made a half-hearted attempt to take over, but she pushed his hands away and he laid back, let her have her way. There were worse things in the world than the zealous attentions of a lover.

She stopped a second time. He would have admitted anything, anything, just to have her go on. He reached for her. She pushed his hands away again, definitively.

The third time she stopped, he thought he might die. He was beginning to have serious doubts about his whole self-control premise. She knew him too well, knew his body too well, and was clearly prepared to use every trick she knew. "Lily," he moaned, "please."

"Uh-uh," she answered, still maddeningly calm. "Not until I get what I want."

Control felt one eyebrow climb. This was a new twist on the game; she'd never asked for anything before. "Wh-what do you want?" Name the country; I'll start planning the coup just as soon as I can think straight.

Lily slid her body the length of his, until she lay entirely on top of him, her face inches above his. "I want you to drop the leash."

At least she'd eased up enough to let him speak. He tried to say 'I don't know what you're talking about,' but got only as far as "I don't kn…" before she started sliding away again. He grabbed her frantically, dragged her back. "Please, please."

She smiled, playful and dark. "I want you to let go. Let yourself go."

Control knew damn well what she wanted. He still hesitated. Since she'd been back he'd been so careful with her. Careful not to hurt her, not to frighten her. Obviously she was better, but there was still a need for caution – wasn't there? Lily read his hesitation in his body. She rolled against him, and he saw her plan clearly: she would have her way, or she would drive him insane. But. "Lily … "

"I'm not fragile," she explained patiently. "I won't break. And I am willing to work at convincing you for as long as it takes."

He had endured torture, in his career, but nothing as uniquely, sweetly painful as this. His logic, what little was left of it, ran to a childish but appropriate phrase: If she can dish it out …

He took as deep breath, exhaled slowly. Gave in. "All right, love."

She rewarded his capitulation with a truly brilliant smile. "I am yours," she said solemnly, "and I want to be taken as yours."

"All right," Control said again. He shifted his grip and rolled both of them. She let him cover her body with his, let him pin her. He swept her elegant arms over her head, gathered both her slender wrists in the long fingers of one hand. There was surrender, and then there was surrender. "You are mine," he said, his voice dropping to a throaty purr, "and I will take what is mine…" She would have what she asked for – eventually. His voice dropped from purr to warning growl. "… at my leisure."

* * *

A long time later – an hour, a day? – a distant, insistent buzz woke them.

They both twitched to awareness. There had been no rolling over and going to sleep; neither of them had the energy to roll over. Instead there had been a contented lapse of consciousness in an untidy pile of bodies. Lily struggled to the edge of the bed, still half-pinned under Control's weight, and snatched the phone from the bedside table. "'lo?"

A dial tone sounded loudly in her ear. The buzzing continued.

"That's my pager," Control realized. He rolled off the bed and staggered to get it.

"Or mine," Lily muttered after him. "I hate Jason."

"We all do, love." In the living room, he located his briefcase by sound, set it on the coffee table and popped it open. The pager continued to buzz while he retrieved it. He snapped it off, glanced at the number. It was the autodial from the office; it went off any time someone left him a voicemail marked 'urgent'. He considered the hotel phone for a moment, then decided to risk it, rather than getting dressed and tramping out to a pay phone.

The message was brief, and not unexpected. He replaced the pager, got a cigar and his lighter, and returned to the bedroom.

Lily had turned a on a lamp and put on a long gown, deep green, satin, that clung to every move she made. The emerald glittered warmly between her breasts. She was straightening the sheets, which badly needed it. He went to the side of the bed to help; she couldn't reach even half way across the king-sized bed.

"Do you have to go?" she asked.

"No."

"Good." She finished with the sheets, climbed back in on her side, sat up against the headboard. "Come."

He gestured with the cigar. "Do you mind?"

"Will you share?"

He lit the cigar, climbed back into the bed beside her. Offered her a hit, which she took. She didn't inhale deeply, only enough to blow smoke rings with. It was, Control thought, completely insane that this woman could make him want her this badly, this soon, just by taking one puff of a cigar.

"You know what Freud says," he observed, reclaiming the cigar, making much rounder smoke rings. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"The key word there being 'sometimes'."

Control grinned. "I hope you're satisfied."

"Deeply and profoundly. And you?"

"Yes. Oh, yes. You could have just asked."

"I did just ask."

He took another draw and held the smoke for a moment, contemplatively. "That was the DDI on the phone," he said when he finally exhaled. "They won't sanction a retrieval for Freda."

"You didn't really think they would."

"No." Control sighed. "Any information he has is ten years out of date. We offered to get him out when he was first arrested. He wouldn't leave his wife."

"And now she's dead and he wants to come over. Sad."

"Yes, it is." Another puff, a series of perfect rings. "Have you talked to McCall yet? About apartments?"

"I'm having lunch with him tomorrow."

"Good." A pause. "You might let him know about Freda. He'll be interested to know the old man's all right."

"He will?"

"McCall recruited him."

"Ahh."

Lily didn't quite see where he was going, Control knew, but she knew he was going somewhere. "And if you see Kostmayer," he continued, "tell him to be sure he turns in those plans at the office."

"The plans for the prison?"

Control nodded. She had it. "He has a bad habit of keeping things out for weeks and weeks after the mission's been scrubbed. Drives the file clerks crazy."

"I can see where it would." She snuggled against his arm, demurred another hit from the cigar. Dropped the pretense. "You think Robert will go?"

"I don't know," Control answered. "Some weeks he's very attached to his retirement. And other weeks he's terribly noble. You'll just have to see."

"_I'll_ just have to see?"

"He likes you better."

"I doubt that." She thought about it for a moment. "I don't begin to know how to angle him in on this."

"Don't even try," Control advised. "Just tell him the truth."

Lily shook her head. "He's going to know I've come straight from your bed, figuratively if not literally. He won't believe me."

"I know. That's the beauty of it. Just tell him the truth, and let him sort it out. Either he'll go or he won't. If he won't, then the old man stays where he is."

She moved around until she was facing him. "If Robert goes, I want to run his line."

Control took another slow drag. "You're killing me. You know that, don't you?"

"A little at a time," she agreed.

"Do you know the word 'recidivism'? The compulsion by criminals to return to the prison they've just been released from?"

"You're a rat."

"Widely acknowledged."

"I won't go back to the prison," Lily promised. "I won't even stick my head up. I'll just run his supply line. I won't get caught."

"You said that last time."

She tried a different tack. "I could learn a lot from that man. You've always said so."

"Oh, yes," Control agreed. "You'll go into the field with Robert McCall, and you'll learn a vastly inflamed sense of morality, and you'll come home to be a never-ending pain in my neck, just like he is."

"I am already a never-ending pain in your neck," Lily pointed out, "so what difference does it make?"

He settled back more firmly against the headboard, took a very deliberate draw on the cigar, and just looked at her. She was kneeling on the bed now, all bright and eager, like she was begging for a trip to summer camp. For an instant, just an instant, she looked like she was twelve years old. Then she moved, and the illusion passed. Control sighed. "See if you can get Robert to go. Then we'll talk about it."

She actually bounced on her knees. "Does that mean yes?"

"You're killing me," he answered ruefully. "I don't think your old dad's heart can take much more of this."

Lily's eyes changed. It was just the eyes, and if he hadn't been looking right at her he would have missed it. "Don't do that," she said, very quietly.

"I was kidding, Lily."

"I know. But don't. Please?"

Control put the cigar in the ashtray. "Lily, my love, I am more than twice your age. And whether we like it or not, to the outside world … "

"The outside world doesn't know about us," she interrupted. "And I don't care about that, anyhow. Just, between us … my father was an ignorant drunk who died when I was a child. There is nothing in you that reminds me of him, and if there were I wouldn't be with you. My feelings toward you are not even remotely filial, as I believe I just demonstrated. And I never want to talk about him again."

Quite a speech, Control thought, and clearly rehearsed. Interesting. He couldn't help wondering what was behind it, what she was so carefully denying. It was, after all, his nature to pry. Interesting, too, that McCall suggested as much about her past. But he wouldn't pursue it tonight. "All right, love," he agreed easily. "We will leave all talk of fathers to the necessity of code."

"Thank you."

"Go fetch my briefcase, will you? I'll have to add this to my great long list of things I can't talk to Lily about."

Her eyes crinkled towards a frown, until she saw the twinkle in his. "You are _such_ a rat."

Control laughed. "We've covered that."

She sighed with infinite exasperation. "Fine. Come shower with me. I'll let you see my scars."

"If we're going to take things off the list, I'd much rather … "

Lily clambered over his legs. "No, love, this is not a negotiation. I'm not asking you. Come shower with me."

Chuckling wryly, Control followed her. "As you wish."

* * *

Becky Baker sat straight up in bed, screaming, "No!"

Scott flung himself bolt upright next to her, immediately, horribly awake. "Becky? What's wrong?" He looked quickly around the bedroom, but saw nothing. It was still mostly dark. "Becky?" Scott repeated, more quietly.

She sat perfectly still, silent, trembling.

"Becky?" he asked a third time. He slid his arms around her carefully, trying not to startle her. "It was just a dream, honey."

Slowly, by inches, Becky relaxed in his arms. "Oh."

Scott lay back down, drawing her with him. "Better now?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"There were c-c-cabbages."

"What?"

"Cabbages," she repeated. "Red cabbages."

Scott fought down a laugh. "You had a nightmare about cabbage?"

"Not cabbage," she corrected vaguely. "Cabbages. They've been in my head all week, I can't get rid of them, ever since Control came to the restaurant."

He stroked her hair, gently working his fingers through the snarls produced by their earlier lovemaking. "Control came to see you?"

"He was looking for her again."

"Her who?"

Becky hesitated. "I can't tell you."

"What do you mean, you can't tell me?"

"I can't," she protested. "I promised."

"You promised Control?" Scott snarled. "Fine. I'll make him tell me."

"He won't. And it's not anything dangerous," Becky tried to assure him. "It's just a …" she sighed, feeling Scott's determination solidify. "He's in love with her."

"_Control's_ in love with somebody?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Who?"

"I don't know. A-a-and I couldn't tell you, anyhow."

The stutter, more than anything, brought him back to the moment; Becky rarely stuttered around him any more. "All right, hon. You want to tell me about the cabbage?"

She shuddered lightly. "I don't know. They were burning. They were so hot, and everyone around them was burning. It was awful."

"It's all right, Becky." Scott tightened his arms around her. "It was just a dream. You're all right now."

"I wish I knew what it meant."

"You think the burning part might have to do with the kitchen fire?"

Becky sighed. It had been weeks since she set Scott's kitchen on fire, and she couldn't stop thinking about that, either. She'd never seen a kitchen fire before. It had gotten so big, so fast; she hadn't known a fire could spread that fast. Of course, having Scott's mother right there when it happened just made it worse. She could feel the waves of hostility and distain coming off that woman …

"We've got to tell your mother this week," she reminded Scott.

The young man groaned. "I'll take care of it," he promised. "It'll be okay."

"She hates me," Becky muttered miserably.

"She'll get over it. Besides, I love you enough for both of us."

They nestled in closer and gradually, uneasily, went back to sleep.

* * *

While Control shaved, Lily brought him coffee. Then she perched on the wide marble vanity next to the sink and settled in to watch him.

Control eyed her curiously, fondly. She was wrapped in one of the hotel's thick robes, nearly lost in it. "You all right?"

"I'm fine. When do I need to be out of here?"

"Check-out's at noon." To her nod, he added, "Monday."

Lily laughed, startled. "It's only Wednesday."

"It's Thursday."

She took a beat to adjust her inner calendar. "You didn't have to do this." She gestured around the bathroom, which was roughly twice as large as her temp housing living room. "Even for you, this is over the top."

"If I had my way," Control informed her, navigating the razor over the tricky slope of his chin, "I'd keep you in this much luxury every minute of your life."

"If I had my way, you'd be late for work."

"You had your way, and I am late for work."

Lily considered. It was still dark outside. "I bet the sun comes up whether you're in your office or not."

"Oh, it does," Control answered. "But there's no one there to supervise it."

"Ahh."

She watched as he rinsed his face and dried it. He drained the sink, rinsed it carefully, dried it with the same hand towel. He carefully dried the razor and dropped it back in his leather kit bag. Then he dried the faucet and surrounding counter. Finally he folded the used towel and placed it precisely at the front edge of the vanity.

Control noted her attention again. "What?"

"I'm trying to decide if that's endearing or obnoxious," she reported.

He shrugged. "Just habit." He moved closer, slid one hand to her neck beneath her hair, and kissed her deeply. She tasted like coffee and toothpaste. He straightened to look at her. Blond, she looked more shamefully young than she actually was. Her lips were gently bruised from savage kissing; there would be small marks all over her from the night before - and all over him, as well. He could feel half a dozen places where small muscles were pulled or strained. They'd barely slept; he could feel the edges of sleepiness pulling at him already.

It was an altogether glorious feeling.

He put his other hand on her neck and slid them both down her shoulders, pushing the robe away. It fell to her elbows, baring her to the waist, revealing her perfect breasts with their scandalous lack of tan lines, framing the silver chain and the emerald around her neck. His hands slid lower still, gently cupping each breast, and he leaned to kiss her again as she arched up toward him. His mouth trailed off hers, down the delicious curve of her neck, to the rounded corner where it met her shoulder. She gasped, her whole body coming up ever further in response to his hands, and he bit her shoulder hard enough to mark it.

"You are going to be _so_ late for work," she murmured.

"No, I'm not," he answered smugly against her neck. He straightened, took his hands away. "Will you be here tonight?"

"You are such a rat."

"Yes. But will you be here?"

She sighed, exasperated. "I suppose so."

"Good." Control walked into the bedroom and began to dress.

Lily trailed after him, the robe still around her waist. "Do you want me in the office today?"

"No. If you manage to seduce Robert, that'll be enough." He paused buttoning his shirt and looked at her, leaning against the doorway, half-naked and perfectly gorgeous. "I mean that figuratively, of course."

She shrugged. "Whatever it takes," she teased.

"You'd kill him," Control warned. "You damn near killed me."

"Hmmm." She shrugged back into the robe and sat on the bed. "Anything specific you want in this apartment I'm finding?"

"Secondary access, limited outside surveillance. Common sense things." He considered. "Maybe something with no furniture."

Lily frowned. "Okay, I'll bite. What've you got in mind that requires that much floor space?"

"Something completely decadent," Control promised. "It's called shopping for your own furniture. It can be highly pleasurable. In fact, I have known women who were completely obsessed with it."

"Hmm."

"It would not hurt you to own things that won't fit in the trunk."

"Why do you hate my trunk?"

Control scowled, tucking his shirt in. "I hate what it represents."

"What do you think it represents?"

He glanced at her. "One, you think no one will be inconvenienced if you die, which is not true. It's going to a major inconvenience to me, and getting rid of your stuff will be the least of it. Understand?"

"Uh-huh."

"Two, you think you can throw the trunk in the back of a car and be gone. Which is also not true, because I would track you to the ends of the earth."

"Using the homing device hidden in the emerald," Lily suggested.

Control paused. "Damn, I wish I'd thought of that." He sat down to put his socks and shoes on. "Do me a favor. Get rid of the trunk."

"No." He gave her his best commanding look; it rolled off her like water off a duck's back. "I'm not giving up the trunk," Lily said. "I've had it since I was a kid. They gave it to me in the home, and I've always kept my best stuff in it. As long as I had it, all the juvenile delinquents I lived with couldn't take what was important to me. It's my security blanket, and I'm not prepared to part with it."

"You don't live with juvenile delinquents any more."

"Have you met the people I work with?" Lily challenged. On consideration, she added, "Of course, none of _them_ ever rifled through it."

"You were dead," Control explained.

"And you were looking for evidence that exposed our affair, I know."

"No," he answered, surprised. "I didn't think there was any evidence. Is there?"

"No. Then what were you looking for?"

He shrugged. "Comfort, I suppose. Some link to you, to your past. Something to hold on to. Anything." Again, the subtle change in her eyes, her manner; it was very small, but Control was certain he saw it.

"There's nothing in my past that you need to know," Lily answered, lightly. "No one there who cares if I'm alive. There's only you." She straightened. "I will not give up the trunk, but if it's important to you, I will try to acquire things that don't fit into it."

Control recognized this for the huge concession it was – and also that she'd given in to change the subject from her past. "Thank you."

"But I don't think I'm up for buying a whole apartment full of furniture at once."

"Money is no object, you know."

"I'm not taking your money."

Control set to tying his tie. "We're way past the 'she's in it for my money' phase of this relationship, Lily."

"I'm not taking your money," she repeated. "Besides, it would be counterproductive. Like therapy, if you don't pay you don't get better. If I'm buying furniture to prove I love you, I've got to buy it with my own money."

"You're not buying furniture to prove that you love me," Control protested. "That's not what this is about." She looked skeptical. "I just want you to have a home."

"A what?"

"A home. I know we're not up for beachfront property or picket fences, I know. I just want …" He paused, choosing his words. "I want to know that when I'm not with you, you're somewhere nice, with your own things around you. Somewhere that's an actual retreat for you and not just some ugly crowded pre-fab box."

Lily gazed at him, bemused. "If you'd started there, you could have been halfway to the office by now." She climbed off the bed, helped him with his jacket. "A home, huh? Well, that's a new one."

"You've never had your own home?"

She shook her head. "All pre-fab boxes." She took a deep breath. "I'll try, I promise. Just don't expect miracles. Habits are hard to break, even the ones that no longer apply."

Control nodded. "Thank you." He kissed her warmly, then took her hand and led her to the door. He took a small detour to the bathroom and let her watch as he shook out the carefully folded used towel and threw it on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well," Pete said, "I never thought that one was coming back."

Robert McCall twisted away from the ledger book to follow her gaze. Lily Romanov was at the door, tangled up with two departing businessmen. They finally got themselves sorted out; the men left smiling, rather than cursing as New Yorkers were wont to do.

Watching the woman walk in, McCall had to smile himself. She was a very different young lady from the one who had last walked into this restaurant, broken, thin, and uncertain. Now she was tanned and blond, fit and smiling. Control was right; there was something more different about her, something beyond appearance, though Robert couldn't quite name it.

He took two steps to meet her, kissed her cheek, held her briefly, tightly. "It is good to see you," he said warmly.

"And you," she answered. "Hi, Pete."

"Hello. You look great."

"Thanks. How's business?"

"Pretty good. Dinner's a little slow, but lunch is booming."

"More dinners once summer gets here, I bet. When it stays light later."

"All right, all right," Robert said gruffly, breaking up the small talk. "Will you excuse us?" He took the girl by the elbow and led her to his favorite table. "Drink?"

"Iced tea?"

McCall sighed. "Such an American girl you are." He gave their drink orders to the waiter – wait staff was very attentive when you were a part owner of the restaurant – and settled back to look at her. "She's quite right, you know. You look wonderful."

It seemed to him that she colored ever so faintly. "Better than last time?"

"Much better."

"I don't think I ever thanked you for that night."

"Yes, you did."

"Not enough, then. Thank you."

Robert was quite certain he was not, himself, blushing as she kissed him. "You are very welcome," he said, a bit unsteadily.

His composure was rescued by the arrival of their drinks and a basket of appetizers. "How was Pristina?" he asked, twinkling, when they were alone again.

Lily rolled her eyes. "Lovely. I have now placed twenty-third on the list of fastest arrests in an Eastern Bloc country. You will be happy to know that I was no where close to the first place record of eighteen minutes, which has been long held by, uh, you."

"I was hoping you wouldn't remind me," Robert answered. "That was an exceptional situation, anyhow. They were expecting me."

"I gathered that."

"Still, I suppose it's good to be remembered for something."

"You," she informed him pertly, "are remembered for quite a number of things."

"I deny them all."

Lily laughed, claimed a breaded mushroom and nibbled it delicately.

"You said you needed another favor," Robert prompted.

"Nothing at all like the last one," she assured him quickly. "I'm not here to consult my moral compass, it's purely a practical matter."

"Your what?"

"What what? My moral compass?"

"_I'm_ you moral compass?"

"Yes."

McCall was genuinely shocked. "If that's true, you are in serious, serious peril, my dear." Advisor, perhaps. Mentor, if need be. But moral compass? He could scarcely maintain his own moral heading at times, much less hers.

Lily waved his concern away. "Yeah, yeah. Here's the thing. I need a place to live."

"You're welcome to stay with me, of course," he answered immediately. The words were barely out before he recognized the impracticality of that plan.

She laughed again, a true, warm laugh, and Robert did not fail to notice that the diners at the next table had to smile at the sound. She had the loveliest neck, when she threw her head back that way …

"No," Lily said, "that's not what I mean. It's an intriguing notion, though, if only for how interesting it would make all our lives. I need to find an apartment, here in the city."

"Ah." Robert chuckled uncomfortably at his misunderstanding. "Doesn't the Company have a housing office?"

"They're useless. So we – I thought you might know of something. It doesn't have to be anything fancy, but it does have to be fairly soon."

McCall nodded thoughtfully. "I don't know of anything offhand, but I can think of a number of people to call. Give me the afternoon, I'll see what I can find for you."

"Thanks. See? I told you it wasn't like the last one."

"Thank heaven for that." He contemplated the appetizers, selected one. The last favor she'd asked of him had been one of the most difficult of his life. "Is that all you needed, then?"

She stuffed the last of the mushroom into her mouth. "Mostly."

"Mostly."

"Dad!"

Robert growled, looked up to see his gangly son bounding toward them. "Hey, Dad, I been looking everywhere for you …" The boy was almost on top of the table before it registered that his father was not alone. He skidded to a stop. "I … uh … I …"

"Hi," Lily said simply.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." He was talking to Robert, but he never took his eyes off the woman.

If he didn't stop staring at her, Robert decided, he was going to cuff the boy. "It's all right, Scott. You remember Miss Romanov?"

"Lily," she corrected, holding her hand out. "We've got to quit meeting like this. People will talk."

Scott remembered her. He took her hand very gently, as he had the first time they met, and kept it. "Hi."

"Hi. Come, sit, eat."

"I, uh …" He glanced at his father. Robert shrugged, gestured. Scott released her hand and sat down. "I can't stay, I just need to… I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's just lunch, Scott," McCall advised him gruffly. "What was it you wanted?"

"Oh, I have to ask you …" His eyes strayed back to the young woman. "You look a lot better than last time I saw you."

"Scott."

Lily laughed. "I could hardly look _worse_ than last time."

"Well, no. But you look great."

"Scott!" McCall all but bellowed. "What is it you want?"

"I'll go talk to Pete a minute," Lily offered, pushing her chair back.

"No, stay," Scott said quickly. "Stay, it's okay. It's nothing … I just … I'm sorry. I'm being an idiot."

"Yes, you are," Robert said under his breath.

Scott caught the comment, turned, looking wounded. Lily put her hand on the boy's arm. "It's okay, I don't mind. I take it as a compliment."

He snapped away from Robert to look at her. Something passed between them, some understanding, some recognition – and suddenly Scott was himself again. He turned back to his father. "Here's the thing. Remember Justine was going to sublet my apartment?"

"I remember some vague discussion of someone subletting your apartment, yes."

"Justine. That was Justine. We had everything lined up, she had the deposit money and everything. But now she's got this acting gig in LA, so she's not moving in and we're stuck again. So we need to find somebody else to take the apartment, and Becky said I should come talk to you right away because you'd know somebody …" He stopped then because his father was chuckling, and Lily was laughing out loud. "What's so funny?"

Robert continued to chuckle. "Your Becky. She's not usually quite so dead on." He mentally reviewed the security setup of his son's apartment, against Lily's likely requirements – it would do. It would do, in fact, rather nicely. Not surprising, really, since he'd picked out the apartment in the first place. "It would suit your purposes, I suppose," he told her. "If it were thoroughly cleaned."

"Hey," Scott protested, "it's not that bad." Then he caught on, turned to Lily. "You're looking for a place?"

She nodded. "I just got done asking if he knew of anywhere."

Scott grinned. Even living with Becky – well, practically – he wasn't quite used to her knack for calling these things. "Wow." He glanced at his father. "Really?"

McCall nodded. "Run on home and tidy up, will you? Miss Romanov and I will have our lunch, and then I'll drive her over to have a look."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"I hope you like it," Scott went on, to Lily. "I mean, you don't have to rent it if you don't like it, just because … oh, and we had a kitchen fire, it's mostly cleaned up now, but they still have to finish the electrical …"

Robert fought down the urge to hustle his son out. He made himself sit back and just watch, just listen, as the two prattled on about the apartment. No, he corrected himself, Scott prattled; Lily listened. She was quite a good listener, prompting him every time he slowed down with just the right question. In an hour, she'd have had his whole life story out of him. She had such a friendly manner that Scott clearly did not notice the information was only flowing one way. He was completely unaware that she was using a very old, very effective interrogation technique, the ubiquitous befriend and betray.

Robert wasn't sure that Lily was aware of what she was doing, either. It seemed to come naturally to her, her instinctive way of connecting to Scott. She wasn't doing it maliciously, and in any case, there was no betraying to be done; there was nothing Scott could tell her that Control didn't already know.

Lily was not only Control's lover, McCall realized. She was also, perhaps unwittingly, his apprentice. He had to admit, it was altogether fascinating to watch her work.

They were nearly the same age, Scott and Lily. There wasn't probably five years between them; she couldn't, in any case, be much older than Yvette. Yet she was a thousand years older, and in a crunch … Robert sighed. In the long run, Lily Romanov might well be the only asset left to his son, the only one of them still alive. In the long run, this friendship between them was one he wanted to nurture.

With a start, McCall realized what had changed about her. Scott, in his mid-twenties, still retained just a trace of boyishness. He was still just a shade too loud, too exuberant. Lily, when he'd met her, had been similarly young. She'd been just a bit too aggressively confident, a touch too eager to display it. That was gone now; she'd traded it for quieter, genuine confidence. She'd given up much of her strong façade and instead was simply strong. She had a lot less to prove now, and was capable of a great deal more. Some of that came from holding the love of a powerful man. Most of it, though, came from within her. Forged in fire, Robert was sure, and now tempered true. Lily Romanov was fully a woman now, and potentially a very powerful one at that.

Shaking his head, Robert tuned back in to the conversation, which had turned somehow to Kay. "Don't tell her, then," Lily advised. "I'll change the locks, and if she shows up I'll pretend I don't speak any English."

Scott laughed. "You know, that might actually work."

"It would only serve to send her screaming to my door," Robert said sternly. "You _will_ tell your mother, Scott."

"What's her problem with the girlfriend, anyhow?" Lily asked.

"They got off on the wrong foot," Scott explained. Then, utterly unable to stop himself, he added, "She caught us in bed, and that was the first time they met, and it's just been downhill from there." Before his father could comment, he added, "I'm sorry, that was too much information, wasn't it?"

Lily shrugged it off. "You're over twenty-one, right?"

"Yeah."

"And so's Becky?"

"Uh-huh."

"And Kay's not paying your rent?"

"No."

"Then you need to stop asking permission."

"Huh?"

"Basic rule of life. Never ask permission to do something you don't need permission to do. Don't give the power away."

Scott leaned forward, put both elbows on the table. "You lost me."

"If you let the conversation become a question," Lily explained, "if you ask her for permission or approval, then you've given her the power. You've given her the authority to tell you no, and you've set up a confrontation if you go against her wishes. Don't ask a question. Make it a statement. 'I'm moving in with Becky, here's my new address, and not that it's any of your business, but here's how much I'll be saving in rent every month.' And leave it at that."

"But all the other stuff …"

"Is none of her business, unless you let it be. What you do in your apartment with the door locked is nobody's business but yours. You don't need her permission."

Scott glanced at his father. "She's right," Robert agreed slowly. "I wish she weren't, because I'm quite sure this advice will be turned against _me _one day, but she's right. If you give your mother a chance to treat you like a child, she will."

"Yeah," Scott said slowly. He turned back to Lily. "Yeah, that's it exactly. You're right."

She shrugged. "I am the queen of passive aggression."

The waiter was hovering at a polite distance. "Scott," Robert said, "you really should go now. We'll be there in an hour or so."

"Yeah, okay." The boy clambered up. "Thanks a lot, Mi … Lily. I appreciate it, I do. I'll, uh, I'll see you in a while."

It took three more false starts to actually get rid of him. McCall finally succeeded, got their orders in and their drinks refilled, and settled back.

"I'm sorry," Lily said.

"For what?"

"Dispensing advice without a license. I probably should have just stayed out of it."

Robert shook his head. "It is sound advice, and he needed it. And he probably wouldn't have taken it from me. I don't mind." He considered. "I do advise a bit of caution, though. If you take this apartment, he'll only be six blocks away, and he's very likely to come back for more counseling."

"I don't mind. If you don't. I like Scott."

"Oh, yes," Robert recalled. "He's uncomplicated, not simple."

"He's joyful," Lily said. "I don't know many joyful people."

Joyful? McCall had to think about that description. He found it accurate, but not one that he'd considered before. There was something just a shade wistful about Lily's tone, just a hint of … longing? This friendship he aimed to promote, he realized, might not be as one-sided as he'd first thought. "I suppose he is."

"While we're on the topic," she continued, "it's probably inevitable that I'll meet Becky Baker. Would you care to put a wager on how long it takes her to connect the dots?"

Robert groaned. "Ten seconds. Twenty at the outside. And once she knows …"

"We need to tell Scott. Is he likely to flip out?"

Robert shook his head. "I wouldn't think so. He has a very liberal mind. But he may need a little time to get used to the idea. I know I did."

"You did about kill us driving back from the cabin, as I recall."

"You find that amusing, do you?"

"I do now."

"It seems like a very long time ago."

Lily nodded. "It was a lifetime ago."

"And how are you now," Robert asked carefully, "really?"

She considered for a long moment. "I am happier now than I have ever been in my life. I have everything I want, and a great deal more than I deserve. There are vast black places in my soul that I'm afraid to touch, but I think everyone has those, and I am content with that."

McCall studied her, and she met his eyes for a moment, and then turned pink and looked away. He took her hand and squeezed it. "Oh, my dear girl," he said softly, warmly. "You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that. I was so afraid we'd never get you back."

The pink went darker still, and she actually ducked her head. "You and me both."

Too much emotion for any more words. Robert gave her hand a final squeeze and released it. "We're having a lovely spring this year. Much better than last year."

Lily looked up, grateful. "Didn't it rain every day last year?"

They talked about weather, about Scott and Becky, about Kostmayer and his Annie, about Robert's clients. They talked through lunch, through coffee, and all the way out the door and into the Jaguar. It was only on the road that Robert remembered where they'd been interrupted.

"I asked if you needed any other favor, and you didn't get a chance to answer."

Out of the corner of her eye, he could see the woman tense. "It's not a favor, exactly. It's more of a message."

"From Control?"

"No. Well, yes and no. Do you remember a man named Gustav Freda? In Pristina?"

Robert took a long, slow breath, reflecting. "I remember him," he finally said.

"He's the librarian in the prison where I was held."

"Still an inmate?"

"Yes. But he seems to be doing well."

McCall nodded slowly. "He was arrested ten, twelve years ago. We offered to retrieve him, but he refused. His wife would not leave the country, and he would not leave her."

"She's dead."

"Pardon?"

"His wife died last month."

He glanced over at her. "Gustav told you that?"

"Yes. He implied that he's ready to defect."

"Ahh, I see," Robert said coldly. He was suddenly awash with frozen fury. All of it, the lunch, the chitchat, even the apartment ploy – all of it to get to this. "And the Company won't sanction a retrieval because his intelligence is a decade out of date."

"Exactly."

He glanced at her again. Befriend and betray. He'd watched her do it to Scott, and it had never crossed his mind that she was doing it to him. So very masterful, she was; he'd never seen it coming. Never for a second. He couldn't blame her entirely, though. She was only the apprentice. "You know, you really should tell Control that if he's going to leave bite marks, he needs to do it further down the shoulder so they don't show in street clothes."

He expected a furious response. Instead, the woman just chuckled. "You think that's bad? You ought to see the one on my thigh." She caught his glare and held it, one eyebrow going up in an uncanny imitation of Control's look. "Now, do we have that all out of our system, or is there more?"

"Tell him," he snarled, "that if he wants me to undertake some Company errand for him, he needs to ask me himself and not send his messenger, no matter how attractive she may be."

"Okay," Lily said cheerfully. She lapsed into silence.

"Okay? Just okay?"

"Uh-huh."

"Just like that."

Lily shrugged. "I am the messenger," she said lightly. "I have the message. I will take it to Control."

Robert sighed loudly. His rage was losing its steam, though he tried valiantly to maintain it. "No, dear, I'm quite sure you're supposed to explain and argue and cajole and charm me into doing this thing, which I am absolutely not going to do."

"If you're absolutely not going to do it, what's the point in wasting the charm?"

"Oh, I see," Robert said, anger settling to exasperation. "Now I'm supposed to feel badly for misjudging you. I'm to pry the details out of you and apologize for not hearing you out, is that it? It won't work, my dear. I heard you confess to being the queen of passive aggression, remember?"

"I remember."

"Good. Then you know it won't work."

"I understand that."

If she had been the slightest bit snippy, McCall thought, driving in cold silence, if she had been just a little defensive, or annoyed, or miffed … but she sat there in the passenger seat quietly, unaffected by his irritation. Which was more irritating by the minute. "All right," he finally said, grudgingly. "What does he want?"

"Sure you wouldn't rather hear it from him?"

"Just spill it."

"The Company won't retrieve Gustav. Control, as far as I can tell, genuinely does not care if you go for him or not. The old man has no intelligence that we want. The only reason for retrieval would be that he once worked for us. Gustav does not appear to be in danger, he is not being tortured or otherwise abused, and his current situation is altogether acceptable. He made the overture; I am passing along the request. That is, to my knowledge, the whole story."

"To your knowledge. That's quite a qualifier."

"Yes."

Robert thought about it for the duration of a red light. "If I don't go to retrieve him, no one will."

"True. But in the next six to twenty-four months the Soviet Union is going to collapse. It's likely that political prisoners like Gustav will be released then anyhow."

"If they're not summarily shot first."

Lily shook her head. "That seems unlikely, in this case. Gustav is very chummy with the commissar. He does the groundwork on bribes for him. Runs the library, meets all the prisoners. He has his own set of keys, at least during the day. Even if you don't go, he'll be back on the street soon."

"You're supposed to convince me, not talk me out of it."

Lily shrugged. "I am the messenger. I bring the message. I try not to interpret."

"Remarkable," Robert said dryly. "I thought I had heard every angle, every pitch Control could possibly devise. But this is really quite original."

"I was not sent to convince you," Lily repeated. "Only to bring you the message."

"Remarkable," McCall said again, shaking his head.

They lapsed into silence for many city blocks. Robert could not help but notice how well the woman did silence. Control would have been prodding him, poking new facts at him, making new arguments. Lily just waited.

"You can get the plans to the prison, I suppose?" he finally asked.

"Yes. And I know where his cell is."

"Of course you do. And I get no support whatsoever from the Company?"

"You get me to run your supply line, if you want."

Robert nodded. "Ahh, another little cookie on the trail. An offer designed to convince me that this is really a simple, safe little mission."

"It should be, but it probably won't turn out that way. Running your line was my idea."

He glanced at her. "Are you sure of that?"

"I'm pretty sure."

"Why?"

Lily shrugged. "I like the old guy."

"Why else?"

"Because you're my friend."

"And?"

"That's not enough?"

"No."

Lily hesitated. "I'll never get to go into the field with Control. I'll never get to see him work out there. You're the next best thing."

"I'm the next best thing," Robert repeated gruffly. "I'll have you know I'm better in the field than he ever was."

"Really?" She actually batted her eyes in innocence. "That's not what he says."

Against his will, Robert had to laugh at her deliberate transparency. "I must have a little discussion with him about that point." He nodded slowly. "I'll think about Gustav. That's all I can promise."

"Okay."

As she fell silent again, McCall couldn't help shaking his head. He was still expecting another argument, and it obviously wasn't going to come. She'd let him talk himself into it all on his own.

For the first time, he could see exactly how she'd caught Control to begin with. His old friend never had a chance, not against this approach. It was irresistible.

Which was not to say that Robert wasn't going to resist. She was not, after all, inviting him into her bed. Rather, she was inviting him to risk years and years on a very uncomfortable and lonely bunk.

He found a parking spot within a block of Scott's apartment building. Lily did not wait for him to open her door, through he certainly would have. She climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around, getting her bearings. He joined her and waited, feeling the sun on his face, the warm breeze that promised an early summer.

"Do you know what Control would say?" he ventured, quietly.

"No, what?"

"He's say," Robert said with resignation, "that it would be a shame to be all cooped up inside on a beautiful day like today."

Lily smiled. "He'd say something like that, yes. He never knows when to leave it alone."

McCall considered her a moment, then nodded, his mind already – nearly – made up. He saw a glitter in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. She had him, and she knew she had him.

He was, he decided, no less an idiot than his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

Control stood in the bedroom doorway silently, watching the woman sleep.

She was face down in the middle of the king-sized bed, her face turned away from him, the sheet pulled down enough to reveal her bare shoulders; she was undoubtedly naked. Her breathing was deep, slow and even. Her right arm stretched past her head and under the pillow next to her.

The faintest grin crossed his face. "It's just me, Lily," he said quietly.

He didn't wake her. She hadn't been asleep. Her hidden hand released the gun and she rolled over, smiled up at him. "You're early."

"I told them I had a meeting outside the office."

"True enough." She held her arms out. "Come. Sleep."

"Be right there."

Control went to the kitchen and put the bags of carryout in the refrigerator. He called the office to be sure there were no late-blooming crises. Then he stripped his clothes off and climbed between the sheets next to her. Lily rolled into his arms, her skin over-warm to the touch.

"How'd it go with Robert?" he asked.

"Hmmm," she answered sleepily. "He's hooked."

"Good work."

"He tried to resist. But once I said you were better in the field, he just sorta folded."

"I am better in the field."

"That's not what he says."

Control snorted. "What about apartments?"

"I'm sub-letting Scott's place."

He thought about this. "It'll need a good cleaning."

"Uh-huh." She was already drifting back to sleep.

"What about furniture?"

"Mmmm. Disposable. Sleep now, talk later."

Control closed his eyes. He was tired; there was no arguing that. Yet she was here in his arms, her body naked, warm, deliciously firm under soft curves. His desire for her ran against his desire for sleep, and she won. He turned his face and kissed her questioningly.

Lily kissed him back, then demurred gently. "Sleep now. Snow cones later."

"What?"

"Nothing. Sleep, love."

* * *

Control woke, much later, without moving or opening his eyes, without changing his breathing. To his left was a peculiar sound, barely audible, a slither of metal, like a quicksilver snake, repeating every few seconds. The emerald, he realized after a moment. She was sliding the emerald's mounting up and down the chain. "I'm not taking it back," he announced.

She startled, laughed softly. The slithering stopped.

"Are you all right?" he asked, opening his eyes. The room was darker than before; it was probably close to sunset.

"I'm fine," she answered quietly. "Go back to sleep."

He shook his head. "What are you thinking about?"

"Budapest."

"Regrets?"

"Hell no."

Control chuckled and reached for her, pulled her not only into his arms but all the way on top of him. "What about Budapest?"

"The snow. The afternoon you opened the window."

"Ahhh." The memory stirred his desire. "I'd make it snow here and now, if I could."

"There are alternatives," Lily mused.

He absolutely loved the lascivious mischief that danced in her eyes. "What did you have in mind?"

"C'mon," she invited. "I'll show you." She rolled out of bed, dragging him with her.

What she had in mind involved the two of them, all six showerheads in the hotel's posh, oversized shower, and eight paper cones full of colored, fruit-flavored shaved ice that she retrieved from the freezer. It wasn't spontaneous snow in Budapest; the encounter had a distinctly more New York feel to it. It was impossibly good.

Then came the belated, hilarious realization that the colored dye in the snow cones did not wash off human skin, at least without a great deal of scrubbing, with soap and loofahs and the hotel's blessedly unlimited hot water. The elements combined toward their own inevitable conclusion.

When they finally got out, got dry, and collapsed onto the bed, they were both exhausted – and starving. "Cantonese," Control announced blearily.

"Hmmm?"

"In the refrigerator. Cantonese."

"I love you," Lily answered.

They dressed, warmed up dinner and ate, talked about Robert and Scott and the apartment, talked about Control's day, talked about office gossip. Control called in to the night switchboard for updates, then called the hotel's newsstand for whatever international papers they had left. When they were delivered, he settled on one end of the couch, with a brandy and a cigar, while Lily lounged at the other end, watching the late local news.

He'd made his way through the London and Berlin papers – just the world and metro sections – before he felt Lily's gaze on him. He lowered the paper, glanced over his reading glasses at her. "Am I neglecting you, love?"

She shook her head. "No. It's just different, having this much time with you. It's been a while."

"Too long."

Lily considered for a moment, as if she was going to add something, then turned back to the TV.

Control sighed. "I'd give a lot to know what you just didn't say," he said quietly.

She shrugged. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. It's bad enough we have to hide everything out there."

"I don't hide any more than you do," she answered quietly.

He might have argued that he had a lot more to be secretive about, but decided to let it go. "Fair enough," Control conceded. He went back to reading the paper.

After a minute or two, Lily shifted. "I'm sorry."

Control folded the paper and put it down, took off his glasses. "I'm not upset. You're just very enigmatic sometimes."

"It's how I keep you interested."

"You have plenty of ways to keep me interested. The snow cones alone will hold my interest for a year or two. I just wish …"

"Tell me."

Control considered his words carefully. "I wish you didn't edit so much of what you say. I wish you'd let me hear what you're thinking, what you're feeling. I wish you'd open up." He shrugged. "I wish you'd drop the leash."

Lily looked away from him. He could see tension and hurt in her body. "Is that really asking so much?" he asked, very gently.

"From a normal person, no. From me?" She shook her head. "You have no idea."

"I have no idea because you won't tell me."

"It wasn't anything important," she insisted. "It was just sort of mushy and sentimental."

"Ah, well, Lord knows I wouldn't want to hear anything sentimental out of you."

"And," she went on, "you would have exactly the right words, you always have the perfect words, and I never do and I don't now."

"I'm not grading on eloquence. I'm just trying to find out who you are."

"You know who I am."

Control shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not at all sure that I do."

A shadow crossed her face. "I'm not at all sure that I want you to."

"We all have our dark corners, Lily."

"Some are darker than others."

He hesitated. She could not possibly think that her secrets were darker than his, could she? She had to know better than that. Yet there was growing tension in her body and her face, deep and visible apprehension that he was going to pursue the topic. He wanted to know her heart, not chase her down this blind path until she bolted. "Give me your feet," he said.

"My feet?" she asked, startled.

"Your feet, love. Now that I know your weakness, I may as well exploit it."

A little apprehensive, she lifted her feet to his lap. Control peeled her socks off slowly, pausing to admire the polish on her toenails. Pale, pearly pink. It amused him to imagine her painting her toenails, perhaps snacking on bonbons, chatting on the phone. It was so very much not the Lily he knew. Yet, there was the proof of some such activity. He took up her right foot, massaged her toes firmly, slowly. "Tell me something mushy and sentimental," he prompted.

Lily laughed, clearly relieved at his change of direction. As he'd hoped, she complied with the request. "You are like the ocean to me."

Control cocked his head. "The ocean?" he inquired carefully.

"The ocean, the first time I saw it," she explained. "When I was little, I always wanted to go to the beach and see the ocean. I read books about it, I collected pictures, anything I could find. And when I finally got there, it was absolutely perfect. The sand was the right color, the water, the heat, the wind. The waves were just the right height, and the sky had just the right number of clouds, and there were just enough people, teenagers with radios and kids playing Frisbee and really tan lifeguards. It was everything I wanted. Everything." She shrugged. "So I ran back inside and hid under the bed."

"Ahh." Control chuckled.

Lily floundered for words. "Sometimes being with you, on days like today, when everything's so perfect … I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"You're making perfect sense," he assured her. "But you didn't stay under the bed, did you? You went back out to the beach eventually."

"I did. And now I go there every chance I get. It wasn't ever the ocean I was hiding from. It's just … things being too much of what I want."

He nodded slowly, taking up her left foot. "That's helpful. Thank you."

Lily started to say more, then stopped. Control waited, kneading her toes. "You're doing wonderfully well, for a beginner."

She laughed. "Thanks so much." Her hand went to the emerald, closed around it. "This affair, this love …" She stopped again. "You were dead on about the trunk, you know. I didn't want anybody to be put out if I got killed. And there was nobody – _nobody_ – who would have much cared. And nobody that I much cared about leaving. I didn't think there ever would be. I never imagined that I could love anyone this completely, I didn't think I was even capable of it. And for you to love me the way you do – it's like the ocean, it's like everything I ever wanted, only I didn't even know I wanted it. It changes the whole world."

"How?" he prompted gently. "Why?"

There was another long pause "Without getting into the gory details," she finally continued, "I had a completely wretched childhood. In the Dickensian sense of that description."

"You said your father was an alcoholic."

"No, I said he was a drunk. There is a difference."

Control nodded his understanding. "And you mother?"

"Also a drunk."

"Who took care of you?"

"I did." She hesitated again. "My earliest memories, the very first things I remember about my childhood, are about covering up. About pulling away from them, because even then I knew they were poisonous."

"My poor girl."

She waved his sympathy off impatiently. "The thing is, most people grow up with some kind of - foundation, I guess is the word, some belief that someone somewhere in the world loves them. I missed all of that. I never learned to trust in anyone else's love for me, not the way normal people do, not …" She shook her head again. "When I first knew that I loved you, I was astonished, I was amazed that I could love anybody at all. But that was all me, all inside, and I had time to deal with it. To believe that you love _me_, to trust in that, after all this time …"

"Is an enormous leap of faith," Control suggested gently. He had no right, he knew, to be stung by the fact that she couldn't quite make it. No one with her intelligence would trust him completely.

Lily shook her head vigorously. "I trust it. I believe in it. Down the road, there may be a place where I see that as completely idiotic, but I don't care. I believe. But believing changes everything else I know."

Control paused, his two hands wrapped around her slender foot.

"It's good," she continued, "it's so good. But it's like … like I lived in the clouds my whole life and suddenly the sun came out. It's wonderful, I love it, but it's too bright, too warm, the colors are too sharp, there's too much to take in. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking through an earthquake, like everything is shifting … or like I'm babbling uncontrollably. Am I making any sense at all?"

"You are, love." His hands continued, gently, firmly. He'd been well aware how loving her had changed his life. He had not considered that the changes might be even more profound for her. "I had no idea, Lily," he told her honestly.

"If I'm distant, sometimes, if I edit too much, it's not that I don't trust you, or that I don't love you. It's just years of habit, of assuming that nobody cares what I have to say. And that I don't quite understand the new way things are yet."

He considered a moment, then lowered her foot, reached out for her hand, and pulled her back to his end of the couch. "Do you know the story of the peasant boy and the singing horse?"

"The what?"

Control settled her in his arms. "It's an old folk tale that Robert told me once. He learned it in Hungary, but it's older than that, probably Persian in origin. There was a peasant boy, very poor but very clever, who fell in love with the daughter of the king. But since he was just a peasant, of course he had no chance of being allowed to marry her."

"Of course not."

"Now the king had many beautiful horses, and he was very proud of them. The finest in his stable was a stallion, jet black and tall, high-spirited. The peasant boy knew how much the king loved his horses, so he got a job mucking out the stables. And one day, when the king came to visit his fine stallion, the boy said to him, 'That is indeed a fine horse. He could only be finer if he could sing.'"

"Sing?" Lily asked.

"That's precisely what the king said," Control continued. "'Don't be silly, boy, horses can't sing.' But the boy said, 'In my land, we teach our horses to sing, and they are the envy of all the kings of the earth. Now this stallion, he is very smart, he could learn to sing and then you would have a horse finer than any other.' The king was not stupid, but he was very vain, and the thought of having a horse like no other was hard to resist. So he told the boy, 'Very well, you may teach my horse to sing.'

"But the boy said it was no easy matter. He would need a fine home in the country, with a vast stable for the horse, and he would also require a beautiful wife – the daughter of the king himself. Of course the king refused. But the more he thought of his beautiful stallion being able to sing, the more tempted he became. And when his daughter said that she would not mind being married to the peasant boy, he finally agreed. With one condition. He would allow the peasant boy to marry the princess, he would give them a fine home in the country with a vast stable for the horse – and he would give them one year. But he warned them that if the horse could not sing after one year, he would have the boy beheaded."

"Oye."

"Indeed. So the peasant and the princess were married, and they rode off to their fine home on their fine horse, and they were very pleased with each other. But as they rode, the princess turned to her husband and said, 'But, _kedves_, how can you teach the horse to sing?' And he answered, 'Don't be silly, wife, no one can teach a horse to sing.'"

"_Kedves_?" Lily interrupted.

"Hungarian. Beloved."

"I like it. Go on."

"The princess began to cry. 'But this is terrible, _kedves_. In a year my father will see that the horse cannot sing, and he will have you killed.' But the peasant told her to dry her tears. 'We are together now, my wife, and we will be happy. And a year is a very long time. I may die, the king may die, or the horse may learn to sing.'"

Lily purred against his shoulder. "That's a good story."

Control nodded. "It is, at least in part, where we are. So much has changed this past year, for both of us, but especially for you. Give yourself time; give yourself a year to get acclimated. Go hide under the bed, if you need to. I will _try_ not to chase you." He felt the icy touch of Becky Baker's intuition, but dismissed it impatiently. "Just make sure you come back to me."

"I will always come back to you, _kedves. _Always."

He drew her close and kissed her. _Kedves_, indeed. It was a good name. It was the best name he'd ever had.

* * *

Mickey Kostmayer tried not to flinch as the gun fired. He squinted downrange, where the target remained completely undisturbed. Frowning, he tapped Lily on the shoulder and she fired again. No hole appeared anywhere on the silhouette; no hole appeared anywhere on the target at all.

"Damn it," Mickey swore quietly. She couldn't hear him, through the ear protection. He tapped her on the shoulder twice – empty the clip – then stepped back to watch her, rather than the target.

There were so many things wrong with her shooting that he didn't know where to start.

The last round in the clip hit paper, low on the outline, in the target's thigh.

Lily lowered the gun, slipped off the ear covers. "Hey, I hit it."

"Hey," Mickey answered morosely, "you weren't aiming for that target." The one she'd hit was one station left of the one she was firing at. "What the hell happened to you, Romanov?"

"I took six months off, I told you."

"It's more than that. You weren't this bad when you were a beginner."

"I was, actually." She slipped off her glasses. "Can you fix it?"

"No," he answered emphatically. "Let me offer a phrase that might help. 'Spray and pray.' Full auto or shotgun. You pick."

"Mickey, I'm not kidding around here."

"Neither am I, Lil." He sighed deeply. "Put the gun down and let me think a minute." He rubbed his eyes and paced behind her. He was deeply glad now that she'd made him drive to this ancient little outdoor range in New Jersey. Though she frequently traveled unarmed, it would not do Lily's colleagues any good to know exactly how badly she was shooting these days. There were likely to be annoying questions about whether she should be in the field at all.

Not, Mickey considered, that those questions were entirely unwarranted.

Romanov was his friend, and she had been the most reliable courier he'd ever worked with. But after what had happened to her in Central America, and after the total meltdown she'd had in New York, he wasn't sure she'd ever be able to work in the field again. Her arrest in Pristina didn't increase his confidence any. Normally he'd have trusted Control's instincts on her competence, but Control's instincts had all gone south on this girl.

On the other hand, Mickey reflected, no one was asking him.

"Fire another clip," he said.

He watched as she reloaded the Glock, reset her safety gear, and fired. She was spending way too much time between rounds, a good ten seconds trying to re-aim. Her feet were wrong. Her hands were wrong. Her shoulders were tense and rigid. She was anticipating the light gun's recoil. She was pulling the trigger with her fingertip. She was thinking way too much.

She was afraid of the gun.

"Shit," Mickey said. All of those problems he could coach her out of. All but that last one.

He moved up behind her and lightly kicked her right heel. She knew at once what he wanted; they'd been through this before. She moved the foot up the inch it had been behind, so that it was square with her left foot and her shoulders. Her grip shifted on its own, once she'd been reminded of the feet. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed down as they came up. She hesitated with the next shot, but kept the shoulders down and halfway loose.

The bullet ripped through the bottom inch of the target, well away from the silhouette but at least in the right general direction.

The final two went wide again.

"Okay," Kostmayer said as she reloaded, "a little better. We can fix this. I think. But I want you to promise me something. You must never, never fire a gun unless I'm standing _behind_ you. Okay?"

Lily slammed the new clip in and glared at him.

"And don't give me that look, you couldn't hit me from there if you wanted to."

She laughed, a little. "You do see why I called you."

"I do. You also have to promise that you will never, ever go more than two weeks without range time again. Ever."

"Promise."

"You're anticipating the kick, and you're pulling the trigger. Squeeze, remember?"

She nodded and went back to firing. Her stance was better, her hands were right, her shoulders stayed down, and she largely stopped anticipating. She adjusted faster, but still over-adjusted, hitting the target too far left, then right, then high, then low. All of that, Mickey knew, had to do with the trigger finger, which was still pulling, and pulling the gun off target. He stopped her in mid-clip.

"Squeeze," he said, loudly.

Lily tried. One shot, upper left shoulder. The next shot she pulled again.

Kostmayer stopped her again, gestured for her to take off the ears. "All right," he sighed. "You're making me give up my last trick. I really, really hate to do this. Aim."

She did. He came up behind her, put his arms around her and his hands over hers on the gun. "Don't get nervous," he murmured warmly in her ear, "I'm a professional."

"That's what I'm nervous about."

"You have to stop thinking about this as a gun," he continued. "You need to use some imagery here. Close your eyes."

"No."

"Lily, trust me. I can fix this, but you have to trust me." She sighed, shifted a little in the circle of his arms, but she closed her eyes. "Good. Now I want you to think about last night." Her eyes flew open. "Stop, stop, trust me. Close your eyes and imagine. This will work, I promise."

Reluctantly, Lily closed her eyes again. "Good girl," Mickey soothed. He let his right hand stroke hers over the gun butt. "Think about where you had your hands last night, and think about the trigger. Substitute. Visualize." She began to giggle, and he had to fight down his own laugh. "If you _pull_ the trigger, Lily, the gun just goes off all over the place." He used his left hand to demonstrate how the gun flopped from side to side. "Nobody wants that, nobody's satisfied with that. But if you squeeze the trigger, firmly but gently, then you're in control of it, right? And you determine exactly when it goes off and where it's pointed at the time. Right?"

Lily dissolved into laughter, and Mickey couldn't help joining her. They lowered the gun together. "That doesn't really work, does it?"

"Try it," Mickey urged.

It took her three tries to stop laughing enough to fire the gun. The round hit the target two inches closer to the heart than any other bullet that day.

"Oh, lord," she said, still giggling, "I will never fire a gun without that image in my head again."

"You think that's bad?" Mickey challenged. "_I_ will never fire a gun without that image in my head again. And it's of _him_. The things I do for you."

"Thanks, Mickey," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. Now practice."

He watched her for the remainder of the clip. She was still adjusting, still missing about half the time, but now she was able to self-correct. She had stopped pulling the trigger entirely. The little quirky smile right before every shot was a little disconcerting, but she seemed to be over whatever fear she'd had. Shaking his head, Mickey got his own gun and got in a little practice, pausing to coach when he needed to.

She fired three more clips before her hands started to shake. "Stop now," Kostmayer advised. "Your arms are too tired."

Lily took his advice, watched him while he finished his clip. After they cleaned up and threw out the targets, they settled at the rickety picnic table at the back of the range and cleaned the guns. "So where you taking me for dinner?"

"Anywhere you want to go. It's Friday, though, we should go early."

"Seafood," Mickey mused. "I know this new place. All you can eat."

"You got it. You bring those plans for me?"

"Of the prison? They're in the van. Why do you want them?"

Lily hesitated. "You don't want to know."

"Oh, hell."

"Uh-huh."

"Are you going?"

"Y-no. Not exactly."

Mickey raised his eyebrows at her. "Not exactly sounds like yes when you say it. C'mon, spill it."

She considered for a moment, then shrugged. "Way off the books."

"Of course."

"There's this librarian at the prison. He used to be a contact for McCall." She filled him in briefly on the rest of Gustav Freda's story.

"So, what? McCall's going to break him out of prison?"

"That's the plan."

"How'd you talk him into that?"

"I told him Control was better in the field."

"Nothing like going right for the jugular, is there?"

"I didn't know they were so competitive."

"I did," Mickey answered. "So what's the plan? He's going in by himself?"

Lily shook her head. "There is no plan yet. I'm going over there tomorrow to talk about it, which is why I need the prison blueprints. I don't know what he's got in mind. But I'm going to run his supply line."

"On an off-the-books mission. Nice."

"Oh, sorry, I said that wrong. I'm reconning logistics in the Balkans in light of multiple regime changes. I just, you know, may meet Robert there and have lunch with him or something."

"Yeah, I got it." Mickey shook his head. "Tell McCall to let me know if he needs me. I can clear my calendar."

"I'll tell him."

They put the guns away, washed up, and headed back for the city. "You sure dinner's okay?" Mickey asked, half-teasing, as he drove.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Just checking. I don't want to be cutting in on the boss's time, y'know?"

"Shut up," Lily laughed. "I am allowed to go out to dinner on my own. Occasionally."

"You're sure?"

"Shut up."

Mickey grinned. "So you're back together, huh?"

"Permanently."

"Riiiiight."

"Your cynicism wounds me."

"Hey, all I know is, every time you two get together, one of you ends up bleeding and I end up in the middle."

Lily shook her head. "We're not doing that any more."

"And again, riiiiight."

"We're not."

"Okay, good." Mickey's cynicism relented, a little. "He treats you okay?"

"He treats me like a queen."

"Good." He glanced over at her. "Y'know, Queenie, you need to tell him to leave the teeth marks a little lower."

"Oh, honestly, what is with you guys and my neck?" She shrugged her collar higher. "How's your love life, anyhow?"

"On and off." He hesitated, but he and Lily had talked about Anne Keller before, at length. He had the long distance bills to prove it. "She wants to go back to Belfast."

"It's been quiet over there."

"That won't last."

Lily shrugged. "It's what she does, Mickey."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Is it worth breaking up over?"

"Right back to the jugular, aren't you?"

"Learned that from my favorite lead."

Mickey shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. It's just weird. She's been on this book tour, all these gallery openings, these awards dinners. I'm not seeing where I fit in."

"As the silent, mysterious, and probably dangerous boyfriend," Lily suggested.

"_Probably_ dangerous?"

"Well, as far as they know. You love her?"

"Yeah."

"She love you?"

"Yeah."

"Everything else is negotiable."

Kostmayer glanced at her again. "Is that what you do in your love life?" he asked sardonically. "Negotiate?"

"If you define negotiation as him finding a nice way to get me to do what he wants, yeah."

"Thought so."

They rode for a time in silence. "Can I ask you something?" Lily said. "How'd you find out about me and Control?"

"McCall told me." Mickey shrugged innocently. "Well, I might have led him to think I already knew about it."

"And he fell for that?"

"He trusts me. He let his guard down."

"Oh."

"He knows I can keep a secret. And so do you."

"I know, Mickey."

Kostmayer stared down the road, working his jaw, considering. "While we're on the subject of trust," he finally began, "I'm going to say something. Once. And then you never have to hear it again, but you have to listen this time because you owe me one for teaching you to shoot. Okay?"

"You're kind of scary when you get all serious."

He glanced over at her. "You need to be careful, Lily. Don't get so caught up in this thing with Control that you forget who he is. _What_ he is. Because when this goes south …"

"It won't go south," Lily protested.

"Sure. But when it does, the last thing you want is him sitting up in his office thinking about all the things you know that you shouldn't know. Do _not _get yourself in that position, Romanov. Don't set yourself up. There are things you don't need to know. A lot of things."

There was a long, long silence. "Okay," she finally said, very quietly.

Mickey glanced at her again. "Just okay? No argument?"

Lily shrugged. "You're probably right, Mickey. And I probably needed to hear that."

He sighed. "Okay. End of the sermon. Just try to keep it in mind."

"I will," she promised. "And for the record, I think I owe you more than one."

Kostmayer shrugged it off, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, well. Kinda late in the game to start keeping score."

She reached across and touched her fingertips to cheek, very briefly. "Thanks, Mickey."

"Don't thank me. Just be careful."

Lily looked back out the window, and they lapsed into silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Robert leaned over the plans for the prison, studying the back wall intently. "You're sure this is Freda's cell?" he asked.

"Mmmm," Lily said, around a mouthful of cinnamon roll. She swallowed, licked her lips. "Those are too good." She shuffled for her copy of the supplemental report. "What he said was, 'Now I have my choice of cells. I have a lovely view of the back gate, my cell is just above it, and so I can see always who comes and goes.'"

"Becky makes them," he answered, gesturing to the roll. He turned back to the plans. "So it might be one of these," he mused, his finger straying to the cells on either side of the gate. "They'd have a better view then the one directly above." He turned the plans upside down. "The guard room is still here?"

"Yes."

"And the kitchen here, this is probably laundry or other utilities. Where is the commissar's office?"

She leaned over the desk and pointed. "Here. Just across from the guardroom. This hall is wide open, clear view of both the front and back doors."

"Difficult." McCall sat back and considered, took a bite of his own cinnamon roll. "Not impossible, especially if they're short-staffed, but difficult."

Lily waited quietly, sipping her coffee. Robert glanced up at her. They'd been there over an hour, in his study, going over the collection of papers, plans, and maps she'd brought. She'd answered every question he'd asked, as completely as she was able. It was altogether different from trying to get information from Control, a fact he greatly appreciated.

"What have we got on Freda himself?" he asked.

Romanov growled. "I tried to pull his file. The clearance is over my head. Which is a little curious, considering. I can, ahem, still get it, if you need it."

"No. I wrote most of it, I know well enough what's in it. Let's not be churning the waters too much." He considered her a moment. "You're not going to ask, are you? About the clearance level?"

"Do I need to know?"

"No."

"Then don't tell me. I'm probably happier that way."

McCall nodded thoughtfully. "A very pragmatic approach." He considered another moment, then began gathering the documents into a pile. "I need to think about this a little more. I'll put a list of supplies together for you tomorrow. How's your border access?"

"Tell me what you need, I'll get it in."

"Car, hotel, papers. Weapons."

"You name it, I'll arrange it."

Robert had to grin. She hadn't quite abandoned her cockiness yet. "All right. I will let you know."

She folded the city map for him. "Do you want to review your blue sheet, or does it still stand?"

"Where in the world did you get my blue sheet?" Lily cocked her head at him. "Of course," Robert realized. The Company maintained a written list of every field operative's preferences: weapons, vehicles, clothing sizes, anything that might need to be supplied to them in the field. McCall's hadn't been updated in years, and should have been destroyed when he retired – but of course Control would have kept a copy. "I think it can stand as it is. My preferences have not changed much with age."

"Okay." She finished tucking the last of the materials away. "I have a pager now," she reported, not happily. "So you can reach me any time." She wrote down the number on one of the folders and passed it over to him.

"Good. Thank you. I think I have everything I need for now. How are you explaining this little field trip at the office?"

"I'm reconning the logistics set-up in the region. I am, actually, so give me a little lead time to set some caches and such."

"How long?"

Lily considered. "I can do it in twenty-four, I'd prefer seventy-two."

Robert nodded. "All right. More coffee?"

"No, thanks." She stood and followed him to the kitchen, clearing her own dishes. "I should go."

"How's the move coming?"

"Last I heard, Scott was moving out tomorrow, and the electrical work is all done. Moving my stuff in is nothing, I just need to clean some and start making it homey." Her voice took a curious twist on that last word.

"I wonder," McCall ventured carefully, "if you might let me send you a housewarming gift."

Lily raised one eyebrow suspiciously. "Like what?"

"I'd like to send my housekeeper over for a day or two while the place is mostly empty. Letty is a perfect wonder at cleaning, and then you could start fresh. I really would like to do that for you. I know Scott said he'd clean, but believe me, my solution is better for all concerned."

"I am capable of cleaning, Robert."

"Yes, but you have other things to do and I'd prefer that you weren't distracted."

"I can do more than one thing at a time."

"My God, you are stubborn. Well, no matter, I still have a key, I'll just go ahead and send her, hmm?"

"Except that Mickey's changing the locks tomorrow night."

Robert cleared his throat. "I'm sure I can persuade him to be busy for a day or two."

Lily stared at him, and he could see her weighing the fight. She had the good sense to fold. "Thank you very much for the gift, Robert," she conceded graciously. "I'll have Mickey start with the safe."

"You don't need to have a safe installed."

"I do, actually."

"No, you don't. You just need to have the existing one retumbled."

She smiled slowly. "There's a safe in Scott's apartment?"

"Yes."

"He didn't say anything."

Robert shrugged. "He doesn't know about it. I'll come clean my things out tomorrow, shall I?"

"What's in it?"

"Identity papers. For myself, Scott, Yvette. Mickey. Some cash. And a gun."

"It's a bolt drop."

"Yes."

"You don't have to move the stuff, if you don't want to. I only need a little room."

"For the emerald."

Lily colored softly. "I wondered if you knew about that."

Impulsively, he leaned and kissed her on the cheek. "You should have documents of your own. I don't think you'll ever need them, but it's best to be prepared."

A knock at his door echoed his words. Robert looked at the woman, then nodded toward the study, where the documents still lay in folders on the desk. She went without question. Casually, Robert moved to the door and opened it. "Yes?"

Kay exploded in at him. "Robert, we have _got_ to talk about your son!"

"Why is it, Kay, that he's always my son when he's done something you don't like?"

"Our son, Robert. Do you have any idea what Scott's about to do?"

"Kay, this really is not the time …"

Behind him, he heard his desk drawer shut. Kay looked past him and softly hissed. "Oh. I didn't realize you had company." Her voice had a distinct chill to it.

"Yes, well, if you had called before you came by, I could have made better plans."

Lily came to his elbow. "I was just going anyhow."

Robert watched as Kay looked the younger woman up and down. His ex-wife had never been able to hide her expressions well, and this time was no exception. "I'm very sorry," she said, chillier still. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Lily took Robert's upper arm with both hands and gave it a little squeeze. "No worries," she said cheerfully. She flipped her blond hair back over one shoulder. "I've got things to do. Thanks for breakfast, Robert. Call me tomorrow?"

"Count on it," he answered, smiling. He usually tried not to needle Kay, but when she made it so easy, he couldn't help but play along. He leaned and kissed the girl lightly, but on the mouth. "We'll talk then."

Romanov smiled radiantly at him, smiled impishly at Kay, and left.

"She's a bit young for you, isn't she?" Kay sniped before the door even closed.

Robert shrugged. "She's over twenty-one. Now, about Scott. What's he done now?"

"Who was that, Robert?"

"She's a friend."

"She's young enough to be your daughter."

"Kay," Robert answered firmly, "I am not going to discuss that young woman with you, because she is none of your business. Now, if you want to talk about Scott, come in, sit down, and have some coffee. But we are not discussing _her_."

His ex-wife stared at him. Whatever her suspicions were about Lily, his attitude confirmed them. Her silent outrage was genuinely satisfying to him, however wrong he knew that satisfaction to be. Let her sit in judgment of him. She would, anyhow. It felt good to know for once that she was absolutely wrong. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would learn to call ahead.

If she only knew the truth, he thought with amusement. Kay had never liked Control anyhow.

"Coffee would be nice," she finally said, with an obvious effort to be civil.

"Good, good." Damn, Robert thought, now that she'd decided to be civilized, he'd have to as well. "Please, sit down." He went and got her coffee, and as an afterthought brought out the last two cinnamon buns Becky had made him. When they were settled, he began again. "Now what has Scott done?"

"I don't think he's actually done it yet, so we may still have a chance. This girl he's seeing, this Becky. He asked me to come in to the city today to meet with him, just him, to talk about her. I think he wants your mother's ring."

"Ahhh." Robert sat back a little. They had agreed, years and years ago, that Scott should have his grandmother's engagement ring to give to the girl of his choice, assuming they agreed with his choice. "I'm not sure that's what he has in mind, Kay."

"But what if it is, Robert? What if he means to propose to this girl?"

"What if he does?"

"Robert, you've met the girl. You know she's not suitable for him."

"I don't know that, Kay. I don't know that at all."

"Oh, come on." Kay thunked her cup down on the table, sloshing her coffee. "That mousy little thing? She's no education, no family, no …"

"Money?"

"No breeding. No grace to her. No class."

"You don't even know her!" Robert protested. "You've met her once, under terrible circumstances …"

"Oh, yes, and there's that, too," Kay jumped back in. "He's been seeing her for more than a year, why am I only meeting her now? And then, to meet her like that …"

"My understanding is that she was not in bed alone, Kay. They are both adults. You should not have a key to Scott's apartment, and you damn well should not be using it. You have no one but yourself to blame for your introduction."

"And then she set the kitchen on fire …"

"That was an electrical fire and not her fault."

"You're determined to take her side in this, aren't you? I might have known. You're the one encouraging this nonsense."

"Kay, I am not …" McCall made himself stop shouting in mid-rant. It never helped. "Kay, listen to me. I have known Becky nearly from the start of this relationship. I know that that's not fair, but you were the one who decided to leave the city. And they have tried to visit you together, several times, but it's always fallen through."

"I had the flu, and then we had that trip …"

"I know, I know. Just listen, Kay. Becky is terribly, terribly shy around people she doesn't know. And she's very … perceptive. She knows full well that you don't like her, that you don't approve, and that only makes it worse. If you would just get to know her a little …"

"Well, if I ever got the chance before they were practically engaged …"

"You don't know that that's what Scott has in mind."

"Then what does he have in mind? You seem to be his confidante these days. What's going on with him?"

Robert sighed. He had not wanted to get in the middle of this, and he was not going to do Scott's part for him. But perhaps he could smooth things over a bit. "I don't know, Kay. What I do know is that he loves this young woman very deeply. So I would suggest that you start adapting to that fact right now."

"So he _is_ planning to propose."

"Kay, I don't _know_."

"She's not suitable, Robert. With the advantages Scott has had, he could marry any woman in …"

"Kay! Listen to yourself. You did not raise Scott to be a snob, neither did I. His feelings for this woman have nothing to do with her social status or his advantages … do you know who you remind me of? My father's family. When he married my mother, a woman they considered completely unsuitable for him because she lacked social standing, because she was, Heaven forefend, an entertainer. And do you know what they did then, these people of grace and breeding? They snubbed her, her entire life. And me, too, because I was only born with half of their 'advantages.' I won't have it, Kay. I will not see Becky treated that way because you can't be bothered to see past her stutter."

"Robert, I …"

"No. You listen now. That child came out of a terrible background. She has taken care of herself from an age at which you were still twittering over teen magazines. She has a respectable job, which she does reliably and well. She is going to college, and paying her own way – something our own son never had to do. She is a decent, intelligent, strong young woman, and she loves our son very much. If she has never been to Europe, never pledged an Ivy League sorority – what of it? That's not what's important to Scott, and it shouldn't be what's important to you."

"But, Robert …"

"Kay."

"It's not fair, Robert." Kay hurtled to her feet and paced the room. "When Scott was fourteen, when he fell in love for the first time, or thought he had, I was the first one he told. He told me everything, Robert, everything that was in his heart. And now, now you tell me he really is in love, and he hasn't even … I don't even _know_ her. And yet _you_ seem to know all about her." She caught herself. "I don't begrudge it, Robert, I swear I don't. All those years, all that distance between you, I don't begrudge your closeness now, but how did I … to be close to you, did he have to shut me out?"

"He hasn't shut you out, Kay."

"He has, Robert. I feel like I barely know Scott any more."

Well, Robert thought bitterly, you might have thought of that before you moved out of state with your new husband. But to say that would be neither kind nor fair, and it wasn't really the root of the problem anyhow. "He's not a child, Kay. He's not fourteen any more, and you can't expect that he'll tell you everything in his heart. He's a grown man, and he has his own life. I know that's difficult to accept. Believe me, I do know. But you can't try to make him be a child again. You _will_ drive him away if you do that."

Kay sat back down, resigned. "I know you're right, Robert. It's just … I thought I was doing so well, and then this …"

McCall pushed the plate of cinnamon rolls toward her. "Try there."

"I'm not hungry." She sighed, picked one up, and took a bite. "Those are really good," she said in surprise, taking another bite.

"They are, aren't they? Becky made them."

Kay paused. "Becky made this?"

"They are rather her specialty. She drops some off every week or so for me."

His ex-wife took a third bite. "It's no wonder you like her so much."

"There are other reasons. But this is a good place to start." Robert gave this a minute to soak in. "I'm sorry for this situation, Kay, and there is plenty of blame to go around. Scott should have tried harder to bring her to Connecticut, and you should have tried harder to meet Becky here. And I should have let you know when I realized the relationship was becoming serious. But Kay, it is not too late, I promise you that. Talk to Scott, let him know how you feel. Find a way to spend some time with Becky. Get past the stutter and get to know her. Frankly, I don't think Scott could have done any better. But you'll see that for yourself, if you give her a little time. And Becky – she'll never admit it, but I do think that young lady would do well with a little bit of mothering."

Kay nodded slowly. "It's not as if I have many options, is it?"

"Give it time. It'll be all right, you'll see."

"And if he wants your mother's ring?"

Robert sighed. "That I don't know. I don't really think Scott's ready for marriage. I don't know that Becky is, either. Perhaps we could persuade them to just live together for a while. Give everyone time to get used to the idea."

"Live together."

"It is what everyone does these days."

"I know, but …" Kay shook her head. "I'm being old-fashioned, aren't I? They're sleeping together anyhow, they might as well save the rent."

"Yes. Precisely. And that would buy you some time to get to know the young lady."

Kay thought about it, and finally sighed in resignation. "Practical as always. Thank you, Robert. I'm sorry I just burst in on you like this. I didn't mean to, but then driving up I got to thinking and I got myself into a bit of a panic."

"It's all right. It's good to see you."

"I interrupted your breakfast," she hinted, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

Still fishing about Lily. Robert fought down a smirk; divorced all these years, and Kay still fussed about finding another woman in his apartment. "No matter. We were finished with … breakfast … anyhow."

Kay stood up, gathered her purse. "You might have introduced us, you know."

"Maybe next time."

He showed her out, then grabbed the phone. "Scott? Your mother's on her way over. Listen to me very closely. Don't say anything, just let her talk. Let her have her say first, understand? It will go much better for everyone. Trust me. Let her talk."

* * *

"Sir, we have a problem."

Control sighed. "Those are perhaps the five words I like least in the whole English language, Walker."

"Yes, sir. You'd better come."

Control made his way to the situation room and looked. They did indeed have a problem. Pakistan, again, and a better word would have been conflagration. He sighed, took off his jacket and tie, and sat down to straighten it out – or try to.


	8. Chapter 8

Lily Romanov sat in an unobtrusive corner of the ops center, scrolling through computer files of activities in the Balkans. She'd been there all morning, and all of business hours the day before. At her elbow was a pad of notes, cryptic little scrawls and arrows. She'd been assigned out of the region for over a year, and a lot had changed, but she was finally getting a sense of the new structure. Now she was down to looking at pictures of men – officials, non-officials with influence, and spies from many nations. She studied them in groups of twenty, then flipped through each group like flash cards, trying to retain the names and associations.

She sensed Control behind her even before she saw his reflection on her screen. "Hey."

"How fast can you get to Barcelona?"

She did a quick calculation. "By sunup, local."

"Set it up, come upstairs. I need you to get there, right now."

"Done." She shut down the computer and stood up. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and everything that needed to be said suddenly didn't. This was work, and things were bad, and their personal life would resume when the crisis was passed – until the next one. "Robert?"

"I'll call him."

Lily made her travel arrangements – a military flight, the quickest option available across the ocean, then commercial from Germany to Spain – and dashed up to the conference room. Ten men, all except Walker now without ties, all anxious. She walked to the head of the table, where Control was barking into the phone, and waited. When he was done barking, she said, "I'm ready. Webster I.D. okay?"

"Fine. Simms?" he snapped, holding his hand out impatiently.

Simms slapped a packet into his hand, and he passed it to her. "You know Ventresca?"

"Yes."

"He'll meet you at the airport. Give him this." He didn't even blink as she reached under her shirt and tucked the packet under her bra strap. "He should have a return pack. If it's not ready, wait for it. Then get back, as soon as you can."

"I'm gone," she said, and was.

* * *

McCall was pleasantly surprised to find a parking space directly in front of Becky's – now Scott's, too – building. He slid the Jaguar in and climbed out, noting the woman with a pile of books and boxes two cars up. She was of middle years, rather attractive, but trying to carry entirely too much; she had the materials stacked up to her chin. As she staggered toward the building, Robert moved to help her. "Excuse me, can I …"

The woman jumped, and the uppermost box tumbled off the stack. Robert snagged it out of the air, but it opened in his hand, spilling small round balls all over the sidewalk. "I am so sorry," he said quickly. "I appear to have made you lose your marbles."

"Balls," she said eloquently.

"Excuse me?"

"They're balls. Musket balls. Oh, damn." She shuffled to the porch and attempted to set down the rest of the materials on the steps. Robert helped her, taking half the stack at a time. "My fault entirely. I should have made two trips." She recovered the box and began trying to track down the stray balls.

McCall helped, retrieving three out of the gutter. He rolled them curiously in his hand. "These are genuine, aren't they?"

"Revolutionary War relics," the woman answered, taking them gently and placing them in the box. "Still missing three." She eyed him curiously. "I would guess, from your accent, you're not much a fan of that war."

Robert shrugged. "I'm not much a fan of any war. But my mother was American; I have mixed loyalties."

"Ah. There!"

He went where she pointed and retrieved two more of the musket balls. "One more to find."

"It's always the last one that's most difficult." She surveyed the pavement keenly.

"If I may ask," Robert said, stepping back into the street to look in the gutter, "what are you doing carrying around musket balls anyhow?"

"Oh, I was at the elementary school. The children are always crazy to get their hands on these. Of course, you have to watch the little bastards every minute, or else they start hurling them at one another's heads. I always have these horrible images of trying to explain in some emergency room why I need them to remove the musket ball from the child's eye socket."

Robert laughed aloud. "I'm surprised they're not putting them in their noses and such."

"Oh, that's more the middle school. I did have to remove one from a boy's nostril with a pair of forceps once. He wanted to go to the hospital, but I just didn't have the patience."

"Ah-ha," McCall pronounced proudly, finding the last ball under a bit of grass in a sidewalk crack. "Here's the last, then."

"Thank you," the woman said warmly, closing the box on her little treasures. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No bother at all." He retrieved one of the two stacks from the stairs. "Let me walk you up with these."

Her native New York caution flared. "No, I think I can manage."

Robert nodded his understanding. "My name is Robert McCall. My son Scott moved in here earlier this week, and I am on my way up to see him. So you see, it would really be no bother to walk you to your door."

Relief flashed onto her face, and also recognition. "So you're Scott's father. Becky talks about you."

"You know Becky?"

"The cinnamon rolls. How could I not know her?"

"Yes," Robert agreed warmly.

The woman retrieved the second stack of books and boxes. "Scott seems like a very nice young man. He has such nice manners, opening doors and such – young men just do not do that any more, have you noticed? And he's done Becky a world of good, if you ask me. She was so awfully shy before, and now she's … oh, what is the word?"

"Blossoming," Robert supplied as they entered the building.

"Yes, exactly." They waited at for elevator, which was slow and noisy. "And his music – I have to admit, I'm quite looking forward to this summer, when I can hear him play every day. He's really very good, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is. We're very proud of his gifts."

"You should be." The elevator came; she pushed the fourth floor, the one above Scott and Becky's. "I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Mira Kalinich."

"Mira," Robert speculated quietly. "It's short for Miranda, isn't it?"

The woman groaned. "My father was a great fan of Shakespeare. It was a bit cute when I was younger. A bit. I should warn you now, the phrase 'brave new world' is not one of my favorites. I've seen it, and it's neither."

"I will keep that in mind."

The elevator groaned to a halt, and the doors reluctantly opened. Robert followed her down to her door. She lived one floor above and one apartment behind Scott and Becky's apartment, at the far rear of the building. Mira struggled with her key, finally got the door open. "I can't thank you enough," she said, gesturing him in. "I really should have made two trips."

"No problem at all," McCall assured her. "I'm happy to … to …" He looked around the living room with sharp concern. He could tell at a glance that the place had been ransacked. He was fully prepared to drop the books and grab his gun, on the outside chance that the robber was still there – except that he wasn't carrying a gun, damn it.

"Just set those anywhere," Mira said cheerfully. "I'll sort them out later. Some time."

His eyes narrowing, Robert placed his stack at the end of an already-bending bookshelf and looked around. So this was how Miranda Kalinich lived. In utter chaos. There were books and papers and boxes everywhere, and a scattering of artifacts – a bullet mould, a long-barrel black powder rifle, a cast iron pot. There were other things, in the clutter, but he couldn't begin to pick them all out.

"I know," she said without apology, "it's a mess. But I can find everything I need in this mess, believe it or not."

"Hmmm," he answered noncommittally. "You're a teacher, I take it."

"Oh, God forbid. I'd kill the little monkeys if I had to spend every day with them. No, I'm a historian. Early American history."

McCall's eyes widened. "You're M.L. Kalinich," he said suddenly.

She smiled. She had a beautiful smile. "You can't possibly have read my works."

"Read them and own them," he reported. "I've just finished your Gettysburg walking tour book. I've actually been planning a trip to try it out."

"My God," she breathed. "The one man who reads history in the whole city is in my living room."

Robert smiled. "There must be more than one of me."

"No, there's not. And believe me, I've looked."

There was a sudden, awkward silence. "Well," Robert said, "I should be going, I suppose. It was a great pleasure to meet you, and I do truly admire you work. Perhaps we could …" He paused, suddenly aware that he had no idea if there might be a Mr. Kalinich in the picture.

Mira understood the sudden pause. "We're sure to run into each other, now that your son is living here."

"Yes." It was an elegantly noncommittal solution for both of them. "Well. Until then." McCall let himself out, nearly falling over a sliding pile of magazines. He shut the door quietly behind him, a perplexed look on his face.

* * *

The look was still there when Scott let him in downstairs. "Dad?"

Robert looked around the apartment. It was as tidy as always, except for the mountainous stack of boxes and oddities at the side of the living room. "I see you've moved in – sort of."

Scott sighed. "I don't know where to put anything. I got through some of it, and then I found myself just wandering around with the Salzburg poster."

"Decision fatigue," Robert said. "It happens. Take a break. Becky's not here?"

"She just left for work. But she left dinner, are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

He followed his son to the kitchen and they loaded up plates. "I, um, thanks for talking to Mom for me," Scott said as they settled on the couch with their dinners. "I know you said you wouldn't, but … thanks."

"She came to me, actually," Robert answered. "Otherwise I would not have."

"She was pretty calm by the time I saw her. What'd you say?"

Robert shrugged. "I told her the truth. That she would like Becky once she got a chance to know her. And then I let her convince herself that your moving in here was a better option than your marrying the girl."

Scott frowned at him. "Um, you know," he said carefully, "I _am_ planning to marry Becky. Just not right now."

"Just not right now, when you're not ready," Robert agreed gently. "I know, Scott. And I don't disagree with you. It's not as if you ever had a very good example to base a marriage on."

"There were …" Scott hesitated. "There were some things to imitate."

"There were a great many things _not_ to imitate, and I am profoundly sorry for that." McCall looked away for a moment, then shrugged. "When you're ready. When Becky's ready. But don't feel like you have to rush it. You have time."

"I know."

His son sounded unaccountably sad. "Scott? What's bothering you?"

"Nothing." The boy shifted uneasily. "It's just … sometimes I feel kinda bad about Becky. About this." He gestured to his pile of belongings. "I'm her first real boyfriend, you know? And now I'm here, and we're sorta talking about getting married, and I just feel like … like she never got a chance to try anything else. Like I'm taking advantage of being in the right place at the right time. You know? And maybe there's something better out there for her, maybe she'd be happier with someone else."

"Have you told Becky that?"

Scott nodded. "She just says she's happy with me, and that she doesn't want to change anything."

"You don't believe her," Robert observed.

"I do. But I don't know how much she stays with me because she's afraid. I know, that's completely stupid, I know she loves me, but … it's still there."

"And that's why you haven't asked her to marry you."

"I guess so." The boy shrugged. "So just go ahead and tell me I'm being an idiot, because I am."

"No," Robert answered. "I think you're being incredibly wise."

"You do?"

McCall nodded solemnly. "I don't think she'd be happier with anyone else in the world, but if you have these doubts, wait. Give her time to get used to being happy. Give her time to gather her strength. It will be so much better in the long run. I'm sure of that. You have made a very smart choice, Scott. A very mature choice."

Scott flushed pink. He never seemed to know quite what to do with praise from his father. "More?" he said, standing up, taking his plate.

"Please."

The boy went to the kitchen, returned with re-laden plates. "Is that what you came here to talk about?" he asked.

"No. Actually, I came to let you know that I'm going on a short trip. A mission, to be precise."

"Uhhh … "

"It's nothing very dangerous, and it should only take a few days. I don't expect any problems. But there is always some chance of trouble. If something were to happen, you know where to find all the documents, you know what to do."

Scott stared at him. "Dad. You never tell me you're going on missions."

"I know I haven't in the past. But I think perhaps it's time I started."

"Why?"

Robert studied his son's face, so serious, so young. "Because you're not a child any more. Because if something does go wrong on one of these missions, the Company may never tell you anything at all beyond the fact that I'm dead. Because I have kept enough secrets from you, over the years, and there will be more that I have to keep, but this much at least I can tell you. And you deserve that, Scott."

The boy gulped. "Thanks, Dad," he answered, very quietly. He took a deep breath. "Can I ask ... what you're going to do? I'd like to know, but if you can't tell me … "

"Normally I couldn't tell you any more than I have." Robert put his plate on the coffee table and sat back. "It stays between us, you understand."

"Of course."

"There is a man in prison in Yugoslavia. Years ago, before I retired, he was an informant for me. When he was captured, he refused to defect because he would not leave his wife. Now she's died, and he wants to come live in America. So I'm going to retrieve him. Nothing more."

"You make that sound so simple. You're talking about breaking him out of a prison."

"Well, yes."

"So it is dangerous."

"It is somewhat dangerous, yes. But it's a low-security prison, and I have very good intelligence about his location and circumstances. Scott, please do not worry. I can take care of myself, I assure you."

"And what if you can't? What if you get caught and thrown in the same prison?" The boy threw his plate down, threw himself to his feet. "Why do you have to do this? Why take this chance? You're retired now. Let the Company go rescue him."

"He's of no value to the Company now, Scott."

"Then let him rot in jail, Dad. Please …"

"Scott," Robert said, very firmly. "I cannot do that. And I will not. I did not come here to argue about this. I am going to do it. I only wanted to let you know."

The boy sat back down. "You're not asking for permission," he said with resignation.

"Exactly."

There was a long silence. "I'm sorry," Scott finally said. "I shouldn't have … I understand. I just worry."

"I'll be fine, Scott. I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

"When are you leaving?"

"Friday, I believe. Assuming that Lily's ready for me then."

"Lily's going with you?"

Robert swore to himself. He hadn't meant to mention her; he'd gotten carried away with the whole truth thing. "She's not going with me, but she's going to arrange my supplies."

"She still works for them."

"Yes. But this is an unofficial operation. She's … moonlighting. She was recently arrested there, she's the one who brought me this informant's message."

"So why didn't the Company get him while they were breaking her out?"

"They didn't break her out. They bought her out with a rather small bribe."

"Well, then, why can't you bribe your guy out, too?"

McCall stared at him.

"Dad?"

"Hmmm?"

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Scott," Robert answered slowly. "I think you may have said exactly the right thing." He stood up. "Thank Becky for dinner, will you? And don't worry, Scott. It will be fine, I promise."

"Call me before you go."

"All right."

"Oh," Scott said, at the door. "Becky says I'm supposed to give you this."

Robert accepted the business card. "Thank you," he said guardedly, flipping it over.

The card, neatly printed but smudged with something yellow, had the business and home telephone number for M.L. Kalinich.

* * *

When Lily returned, the men were almost exactly the same as when she left. The room smelled distinctly muskier. Control was still sitting at the head of the table, and still barking at the phone. "Honey, I'm home," she announced quietly.

He looked up at her irritably. "Miss your flight?"

"Uh, no. I've been gone for twenty-two hours." She retrieved Ventresca's packet from inside her shirt and handed it to him. "Have you guys even left this room?"

"On and off."

"Have you eaten?"

He was already studying the documents and didn't answer. She glanced up at Simms. "Snacks," he muttered.

"Oh." In the bedlam, no one even noted her departure.

She returned half an hour later. "Dinner," she announced loudly, into the chaos. She opened the doors that joined the conference room to the next one. From the opening, the smells of hot food, mainly chicken, wafted in. There was a discernable pause in the activity.

Control looked up sharply, suddenly aware that he was starving. They were all looking to him, hollow-eyed exhausted refugees. "Go, eat," he ordered gruffly. He stood up slowly, stiffly, as they stampeded into the next room.

Lily waited, watching him. For the first time he actually looked at her. She looked remarkably well rested for as long as her trip had been. She was, he knew, one of those rare creatures who could sleep anywhere. She had a new t-shirt on, gray, with a discreet Air Force emblem on the left breast. She had an ever-changing collection of clothing from the various armed services. Noting his attention, she turned to show him the back. 'Go Army' was stenciled in block letters, and below it, in blue, was scrawled 'and take the Navy with you!'

It was the closest he'd come to smiling in three days. "Thank you for dinner," he said formally, aware of the people still coming and going, the constant surveillance of the building.

Lily shrugged. "You don't eat, you get cranky, you start wars." She gestured, and he moved through the thinning crowd to the next room. The conference table was covered with carry-out dishes of all kinds – rotisserie chickens, half a ham, corned beef slices, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, baked beans, fruit salad – she'd bought out the deli counter. Given the way his associates were digging through the meal, it had been an excellent choice. Control found a paper plate and elbowed his way with authority through them to the table.

"Thanks, Lily," Simms said, at her elbow, with his own plate full.

"I am a practical woman," she answered. "Am I still going to the Balkans, or has that been postponed?"

"You're still going," he said.

The door slammed open, and Jason Masur strode in. In sharp contrast to the others, he was freshly showered and well rested. "Food, good. I'm starving." He muscled his way to the front of the line. "So what's the situation?" He got his plate full and made for the other room. "Come on, people, back to work. This is a working lunch, there's a reason they call it that. You, Lisa, right?"

Control turned to watch them. Lily nodded immediately; she wasn't about to give Jason her correct name if she could help it.

"Lisa, be a doll and go fetch me some fresh coffee. Make a new pot, this old stuff tastes like mud."

Her face went completely blank. "Excuse me?" she asked politely.

"Coffee. Coffee, you know? Heavy cream … "

"Three sugars, I know," she finished, recovering. "Right away, sir."

Control had to hide a smile. He was probably the only person in the room who heard the tiny sarcasm under that 'sir'. He caught Simms' eye, and the younger man nodded. He'd caught it, too.

At Jason's prodding, they took their food back to the table and briefed him on the situation. It was not, really, any better; only the food made it seem that way. Lily came back and set a cup of coffee – a real cup, no paper for Mr. Masur – at his elbow. "There you are, sir," she said with impossible perkiness, "just the way you like it."

Control wouldn't have touched that cup with a ten-foot pole. It was not, not a good idea to treat Company couriers like housemaids. As a breed, they were not as openly dangerous as field ops, but they were viciously sneaky and wildly imaginative. Lily's sweet smile and bouncy demeanor told him that there was more in that cup than Jason expected.

Jason took a big swig. "Perfect. Thank you, Lisa."

"Sure. Nice sweater."

"Like it? Abercrombie and Fitch. Their new line."

"Oh. I thought you might have shaved the alpacas yourself."

Jason frowned at her, puzzled, but the girl was already on her way out, pausing only to shrug encouragement at Control.

He rubbed his eyes, and studiously avoided watching Jason drink that coffee.


	9. Chapter 9

"There you are," Robert said, letting Lily into his apartment. "I wondered where you'd got to."

She shrugged wearily. "I have this job where they send me all over the world on no notice. Inconsiderate bastards."

"I was just making tea. Would you like some?"

"Sure." She trailed him into the kitchen. "Do you have my shopping list?"

"Not yet. I think I may need to rethink my plan a bit. Sugar?"

"No, straight up is fine." She took her cup and followed his gesture to the couch. "Rethink how?"

"Well, Scott's made a rather startling observation. You and I both assumed that we would need to break Freda out of the prison. Because that's the way it's always been done." Robert sat down next to her. "But they didn't have to break _you_ out, did they?"

"I was a tourist selling blue jeans, not a political prisoner."

"True. But if the Soviet Bloc is folding, as you say, political prisoners may be losing their importance. Especially minor ones like Freda. Moscow no doubt pays a fee for Freda to be maintained at that prison; it may even be that they're behind on their payments. If, as your report implies, the commissar is looking to line his pockets before the system collapses entirely – why not take this bribe as well?"

Lily sat back and thought about this for a long moment. "Well," she finally said, "it's worth a try."

"I thought so." McCall set his cup down. "The trick will be to devise a credible explanation that doesn't involve you."

"Me?"

"After all this time, if someone suddenly shows an interest in Gustav Freda, it's bound to raise questions. If someone were to show up with the money to buy his freedom – you do see the problem. Control's willing to be very lenient on this, but compromising an agent's cover is probably beyond even his tolerance."

"But, Robert," she answered, "Lily Romanov has never been to Yugoslavia. Laurie Webster's been there, but Lily hasn't. And since Laurie's already been arrested, booked, and invited to leave and never come back, who cares if we compromise her?"

McCall nodded. "Of course. Of course. Tell me about Laurie Webster, then."

Lily took a sip of tea. "Laurie is the debutante daughter of a wealthy businessman whose company does significant trading in Yugoslavia. Has a corporate office there, by the way, in Belgrade. They won't be any help to us, though; they're under pretty heavy scrutiny now."

"We don't need them," McCall answered. He went to the study and retrieved Lily's supplemental report. "Gustav befriended Laurie in prison. He told her about his sister-in-law in Chicago. Even gave her the woman's address, on the cover of a magazine she had mailed to his late wife."

"So Laurie came home and looked her up."

"Told her how she got out of prison," Robert continued. "And perhaps the sister-in-law pawned the good silver and put together a little freedom fund for her late sister's husband."

"It would make sense, too, if she contacted the same solicitor in Pristina to make the offer. She would have asked Laurie for a reference."

Robert shook his head. "Now we're back to using Company assets."

"Harley's not an asset. He's a freelance."

"Harley Gage?"

"Yes."

"Ahhh." McCall sat back, his eyes narrowing with thought and satisfaction. "Yes. This could work."

"Of course, the good commissar might also toss Harley into a cell," Lily speculated.

"Yes, well, break one man out, break two men out, once you've set the explosives it really doesn't make much difference."

"I like your attitude."

"You have Harley's address, I presume."

"I can get it."

"Good, good. All right, then. I'll get some cash together, and we'll see if we can't do this the easy way, hmm?"

Lily shrugged. "You know me. I'm always up for something new."

* * *

Kostmayer set down his end of the footlocker, straightened up. "Okay, where do we need to go for the rest of it?"

"The rest of what?" Lily asked.

"Your stuff. You have a storage locker somewhere or what?"

"Nope. That's it."

Mickey looked at the trunk, then back at her. "That's it? That's all you needed to move?"

"That's it."

"I love you."

Lily blinked suggestively. "Change my lock, sweetie?"

"I'd be glad to. Be right back."

Kostmayer went back to his van and got the new deadbolt and his tools. When he got back to the apartment, Lily was still standing in the living room, staring at the blank wall. "Cockroach?" he asked.

"Hmm? Oh, no. I'm just thinking about paint."

"You have to paint it white again before you move out."

Lily nodded and moved off to the kitchen. Mickey put his things down and quickly popped out the old lock. While he worked, the girl drifted in and out again, quiet, speculative. He'd never seen her in this mood, whatever it was. "What are you doing?" he finally asked.

"I'm decorating," she admitted. "I'm kinda liking the possibilities here. I didn't think I would, but I'm warming up to it. Have you ever had a leather couch?"

Mickey stared at her. "Yeah. They last forever, if you're careful. But they're cold in the winter and sticky in the summer."

"Hmm." She drifted off again.

"You really don't own any furniture or anything?" he called after her.

"Just what Scott left. And I'm going to replace most of it."

Kostmayer tore the packaging off the new lock and dropped it into place. It was a pretty simple installation, with the opening already drilled. The lock exactly matched the one he'd removed; with a little grease and dirt rubbed on it, the landlord would never know the difference. "Two words to keep in mind? 'Free delivery'."

"I'm all over it." She wandered the half-furnished room. "Curtain. Or draperies. Blue, I think. Maybe green. Or something golden. That would make nice light in here."

Mickey glanced at her again and shook his head. He'd been hoping he was wrong, but he wasn't. His beloved courier had turned emphatically girlie on him. "Women," he gruffed, grateful that at least she hadn't asked his opinion. He was also grateful she didn't have a metric ton of stuff to move.

"What about us?"

Kostmayer spun around. Becky Baker was standing in the hallway outside the door, smiling shyly at him. "Hey, there." She had, he happily noted, a grocery bag in her arms.

"Hi, Mickey."

"You brought me lunch."

"Yes. Well, you and her."

The her in questions came and looked over his shoulder. "Hi. I'm Lily."

"Hi. I'm Becky."

"I know. Come on in." Lily stuck her hand out and they shook, awkwardly.

Mickey watched them closely. He was waiting for Becky to make the Lily-Control connection, and he knew Lily was, too. But absolutely nothing clicked with the younger woman.

"I brought you some lunch," Becky said. "I thought there wouldn't be anything in the fridge."

"There's not. Come on, we'll feed the boy."

"Yeah," Mickey said, "feed the boy." Lily shot him a curious look; Mickey just shrugged. They'd all been sure that Becky would know immediately. But there was nothing.

The two women went to the kitchen. Mickey heard some scraps of conversation, some laughter, and something about men being slobs. "I heard that," he called loudly.

"You did not," Lily called back.

By the time he'd finished with the lock and put his tools away, there was a loaded plate waiting for him. Lasagna, salad, fresh bread. It was more than he usually ate for lunch, but he wasn't about to turn it down.

"Left-overs," Becky said. "I made the lasagna for Scott's mother the other night."

"How'd that go?" Mickey asked between mouthfuls.

"Better," Becky answered, though her tone wasn't very certain. "Kay still doesn't like me, but she's better."

"She hates me," Lily announced cheerfully.

"Where'd you meet her?" Mickey asked.

"At Robert's apartment, the other morning. She hissed at me."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one," Becky said gratefully. "She makes me stutter." She shook her head. "Of course, everybody makes me stutter at first."

"I don't," Lily observed.

Becky stared at her. "You don't. Why don't you?"

"Because I'm really your long-lost wicked stepsister."

"You're not wicked."

"You just met her," Mickey said wryly. "Give it time."

"Do you know anything about home decorating?" Lily asked bluntly.

Becky shrugged. "I know what I like."

"You're one up on me, then. You free this afternoon?"

"Uh, sure."

"Good. Let's go shopping. I was going to take Mickey, but he's guy-grumbling already."

"I have a note," Mickey reported cheerfully, "that says I'm a miserable browser and should be excused from shopping."

"Unless you have plans," Lily continued.

"No, and sure, I'd like that, I guess."

Mickey looked back and forth between the two of them. Becky seemed overwhelmed and a bit bewildered by Lily, but tentatively intrigued. Lily was just irrepressible. The thought of the two of them roaming the streets of Manhattan, armed with numerous credit cards, was enough to evoke terrifying flashbacks in any man who'd ever been dragged through Sears by his mother or girlfriend. He finished his lunch quickly. "Here's your keys," he said, and fled.

* * *

She was back in the ops center, still looking at faces, and he was still trapped in the conference room, but Control called a short break and went to find her. She was a brunette again, he noticed. Her Florida tan had faded enough. "I saw your note about McCall's idea," he said without preamble. "It's worth a try, I suppose. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow, noon."

"You have everything you need?"

Lily looked him straight in the eye. "I have enough to hold me until I get back, I suppose. I see we're still in crises mode."

"Yes," he sighed. "But at least Jason left."

A quirky smile crossed her face and was gone. He longed to ask what she'd done to his coffee – but not here. "I'm out of temp housing," she reported.

"Good. One less memo they'll be sending me." Control folded his arms; it kept him from reaching for her. "And have we exceeded trunk capacity?"

"Not really. Haven't had time. But we did go and buy linens and such, me and Becky."

"You and Becky. That must have been interesting."

"We had a blast. It's nice to get away from the office. And your name didn't come up even once."

Control frowned at her. "That's surprising."

"Yep. Oh, and I bought a samovar."

"A samovar?"

"For making Turkish coffee. So I can be awake and alert at a moment's notice. As soon as I can figure out how it works. I thought you'd appreciate that."

"Oh, yes," Control agreed. "I like my agents completely wired up when they come in." He understood the invitation, but he had no idea if he'd be able to take her up on it. "Try to check in before you leave, if we haven't spoken before then."

"Understood," she answered, and turned back to the computer screen.

In fiercely bad humor, Control stalked back to the conference room.

* * *

Scott came home after his show and found Becky curled on the couch under a vast white throw, watching some old movie. "Hey," he said, kissing her, "you didn't have to wait up."

Becky shrugged. "I started watching this and couldn't turn it off."

He glanced at the TV again. Some kind of courtroom drama, not at all her style. She'd been afraid to go to bed, afraid of having another nightmare without him there to wake her. Scott kicked off his shoes and joined her on the couch. "This new?" he asked, arranging the throw over them. It was impossibly soft.

"A gift from Lily. She insisted."

"Lily Romanov?" Scott frowned, confused.

"Uh-huh. We went shopping today."

"I didn't even know you knew her."

"I didn't. I took lunch over to your place – your old place. Mickey was changing the locks, and she was going shopping for towels and stuff."

"And you went with her?"

Becky sat up. "Do you think I shouldn't have?"

"No, it's fine, it's just a little surprising. I don't quite know what to make of her."

"She doesn't make me stutter."

"Really? That's good. But you don't get any kind of, uh, read on her?"

"Not a thing," Becky admitted. "But I don't always see things, anyhow, you know that. And Lily's very … hidden. Like Control, sorta. And your dad. Maybe more so. She hides a _lot_ of stuff."

Scott frowned. "Well, same line of work."

"Yeah." She nestled closer to his side. "But we had such a good time. I don't usually have fun with people I just met, I'm usually so … you know, but she just, I don't know, she's so … comfortable. Like if she knew every single thing about me, she'd still want to hang out with me. You know?"

"I know." Scott did know, with uncomfortable clarity. Lily Romanov had a way of making him feel like he was the most important person in the whole world. It was comforting – and also a little uncomfortable – to know she affected his girlfriend the same way. "I think … I almost think, this sounds so stupid, but I think she and my dad might have something going on."

"What kind of thing?"

"You know, a romantic thing."

"Lily and your _dad_?"

Scott shrugged. "I know it sounds stupid. But whenever I see them together, there's just this … I don't know … and Mom hates her. It just makes me think … but then again, she's so much younger than him."

"Would that bug you? The age?"

He thought about it. "I don't know. It'd take some getting used to."

"Hmmm." Becky curled closer still. "Maybe that's what she's hiding. But … it doesn't read right." She shrugged. "We'll find out, sooner or later. Are you hungry?"

Scott grinned. "I'm ravenous," he answered.

"I'll go fix you something." Becky started up.

He drew her back. "No. That's not what I'm hungry for." He drew the white throw over them and kissed her deeply, slowly. Speculation about his father's love life vanished, at least for a time.

* * *

At four in the morning, Control rapped very quietly on Lily's new door. She opened it at once; he'd called from the office. "Hey," she said, dragging him in and locking the door behind him. "You look like hell. How'd you escape?"

He yanked his tie loose impatiently. "I told them I was going home to change. I can't stay long. I just didn't want you to leave before I had a chance to see you." He glared around the room, spotted the damn red trunk against the wall. "Not much of an improvement."

Lily wrapped her arms around him, dragged his face down, and kissed him thoroughly. "You're cranky," she said quietly.

"Damn right I'm cranky. I've been stuck in that office for six solid days, the situation is not getting any better, I'm completely surrounded by idiots …"

She let him talk, peeling him unobtrusively out of his jacket, his holster, his tie. Control had half-finished his character assassination of Jason before he noticed she'd finished unbuttoning his shirt. Or that she was wearing the irresistible green gown again. "Damn it, woman, I am not here for therapeutic sex."

"I know," Lily soothed. "Are you hungry?"

Control rubbed the back of his neck irritably. "No. I'm tired and I'm cranky, but I'm not hungry."

"Okay. Wait here. Go on, I'm listening," she said, traipsing off to the bedroom.

"Where was I?"

She returned with an armful of sea-green comforter, which she folded in half and spread on the living room floor. "Jason's probable relationship with farm animals."

"Probable, nothing. I swear the man reeks of pig. Or alpacas, for all I know. What's an alpaca smell like? And now Walker has taken to agreeing with everything he says. I don't know what's going on there, if he's just abdicated his own thought processes for some reason …"

Lily knelt on the comforter, drew him down to her. "I am _not_ resuming my drive-by sex life," Control repeated firmly as she took his undershirt off.

"You are never going to let that go, are you?"

"No. Because it was true."

"It wasn't true," Lily answered. She pushed him facedown onto the comforter, arranged his hands under his head, then straddled his hips and started massaging his bare back. "Walker thinks he's the heir."

"The what?"

"The heir. Your heir. He's positioning himself favorably for after the coup."

"Where do you hear these things?"

"In the mail room." Her hands zeroed in on the spot at the base of his neck that actually hurt. She was gentle, but increasingly firm. "You carry everything right here, don't you?"

He groaned as his muscles yielded to her familiar touch. "Walker will have my office over my dead body."

"Well, yes, that's usually how coups go, _kedves_."

"Is he actively plotting, or just biding his time?"

"Just biding, as far as I know. And kissing up, of course. The consensus is that Simms is more likely, if you have any say."

Control lay very still for a moment, letting her hands work, letting the tension drain away for the first time in days. He tried to let his bad mood go. It would still be there when he got back to the office, but for a couple of stolen hours, he was with his Lily. It might, he thought bitterly, be weeks before he could feel her touch again. "God, I wish you …" he began, and then stopped.

"What, love?"

"Nothing."

"_Kedves_." Her hands continued, persuasive. "Tell me what you wish and it's yours."

"That's a damn dangerous promise to make."

"I make it nonetheless."

"Fine. I wish you'd quit the Company and let me buy you a house on the beach."

Lily's hands never hesitated, though she did not answer for a long moment. Finally, quietly, she said, "Okay."

He snorted bitterly. "You don't mean that."

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I do, love." She sat back and her hands resumed, soothing the muscles from his neck out to his shoulders. "I need this mission, because I promised Robert and because I need to know I can still do it. But after that, if that's really what you want, I'll quit."

There was a funny note to her voice, and Control was afraid to see what was in her eyes. He lay perfectly still for a moment, transfixed. "You love your job," he said quietly.

"I love you more."

He rolled and sat up; she slid off his back and onto the comforter. "Are you serious?"

Her eyes were dancing, nervous. "Are you?"

"Is it what you want?"

"I have everything I want," Lily answered, "here and now." She put her slender hands on his bare shoulders. "But whatever I can do to make you happy, whatever's in my power, I will do. Gladly."

Control studied her face for a long moment, amazed again by her ability to surprise him. "As your lover, I'm touched by your devotion, and as your boss, I'm appalled by your lack of dedication."

"Well, if you'd stop sleeping with your subordinates, you wouldn't have these conflicts."

He chuckled. "Subordinate. That's rich. Is it what _you_ want, Lily?"

"No," she admitted. "But I would be happy anyhow."

"My sweet Lily." He caught her face between his two hands and kissed her warmly. "No. I don't want you to quit. Not if you don't want to. But that you're willing, that you offered, means more to me than you can know."

Lily shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I don't have any brilliant jewels. It's the best I can give you."

"A treasure in and of itself." He kissed her again. "But don't give in to me just because I'm tired and overworked and irritable. Don't take it to heart. I just wish you weren't going. I am so afraid, every time you leave."

She stroked his face. "Why?"

Control shook his head. "It's foolish, I know. But so much can happen out there. Not just the standard dangers – shot, tortured, thrown in prison – but a thousand other things, plane crashes, street muggings …" He caught the bemused look on her face. "I know. I _know_. And it can't become a major production every time you leave the country, I know that, too. I just can't imagine what my life would be like without you. No, I _can_ imagine it, I remember it, and that's even worse."

"You're tired," Lily soothed. "It gives legs to all your fears. It's nothing more than that."

"It is more," he insisted. "Even when I'm not tired I'm afraid of losing you. And I'm very, very afraid that I'll lose you to something stupid, some cruel ironic twist of fate. I have given a hostage to fortune, and there's nothing I can do to protect you against the million things that could happen out there."

"_Kedves_," she murmured, drawing his head down against her shoulder.

"And you're right," he continued, "if I wasn't so tired I would never be saying this, I would never admit any of it. But you should know. Sometimes I sit in that office and listen to those idiots and the only thing that keeps me from putting a bullet in my head is knowing that you're on the outside waiting for me, that there's something more than just the damn job."

She held him, rocked him gently, ran her fingers through his hair. Control rested there a moment, breathing her scent, breathing his life back into his soul. Then, impatiently, he sat up. "I don't mean to scare you, and I don't mean to demand things of you. I just wanted you to know. Sometimes you are the only reason I live."

Lily scooted back a bit and drew him back down, so that he lay with his head in her lap, her fingers warm and gentle on his face, his shoulder. "I should tell you about the cigar," she said quietly.

"The cigar?"

She bit her lip. "Before I go, you should …I should …" She paused, struggling for words.

Control recognized the pattern from the ocean discussion. Something from her heart, bubbling up. Why did she always have to work so hard to get it out? "I could rub your feet," he offered.

"No," Lily laughed softly. "No, it's okay, I can do this, I just … if I tell you, you have to promise not to freak."

"I don't freak, Lily."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Lily leaned and kissed him, then sat up, stroked his forehead, his jaw line. "In Nicaragua," she finally began, carefully, "I decided to die."

Control tried to sit up. "Lily …"

"Shh, shh. Don't freak. You promised. Obviously I _didn't_ die, so just listen."

Reluctantly, he settled back, but his hands came up and covered hers. She had never talked to him about Nicaragua; he wasn't sure she ever would. He took a deep breath. "Sorry. Knee jerk. Tell me."

"You don't really need to hear this."

"Lily."

Another long silence. "After the first … time," she began, "after they finished, they all went to eat, and I finally had a chance to … get myself together, to think. It came to me that if they knew who I was – not who I worked for, just that I was an American – that they'd … I realized that all I had to do was stand up and say, 'You can't treat me like this, I'm an American citizen,' and they'd shoot me in the head and I'd be out. Out, you know? Gone? And it seemed like a reasonable plan, in the face of … more. I wasn't afraid of dying, I never have been. It would have been so easy to just go."

Control's hands tightened over hers, crushed them to keep her close.

"When they came back," Lily continued, "I stood up, I started to …" She hesitated. "Santoro had this cigar. And before I could say anything, the smell hit me, this crappy little cigar, and I … and I …"

He growled. "I've been meaning to give up smoking anyhow."

"No, no," she answered quickly. "I mean, yes, quit if you want, but don't quit on my account. The damn cigar saved my life. Because while I was standing there, smelling that cheap-ass little cigar, I had this flash, this – this sense memory, and I knew that if I spoke, if I let them kill me, I was going to die smelling that cheap cigar and never get to smell a really good one again. And then ... and then I realized what else I was giving up, not just the cigars but _you_, the sound of your voice and the way you look over your glasses and the way your hands move when you talk That I was giving up any hope of ever seeing you again. Not the hope that I could be here with you, I never thought this was possible, but just to … just to pass you in the hall, just to sit in a briefing and hear you speak … "

She paused, running out of words. "So I didn't die," she continued, stating the obvious. "I just sat back down and went to my happy place."

He stared up at her, breathless. "You lived through that _for me_?"

"Yes."

"But we weren't even together."

"I know."

"Thank you." It sounded horribly inadequate. He sat up again and kissed her gently, over and over. "My love, my love. Thank you for coming back to me."

"I will always come back to you. Unless I am dead, I will come back to you."

"My love." She ducked her head against him and he let her hide there. For a girl who wasn't good with emotions, that had been a bombshell. "Thank you for telling me."

Lily nodded against him. "I thought you should know. Especially the way things were when I got back." She sat up, traced the scar on his chin with her fingertip. "I never meant for that."

Control frowned at her. The scar – where she'd bitten through his lip, but he'd absolutely deserved it – seemed to trouble her far more than it had ever bothered him. "Would it have made a difference," he asked carefully, "if I had come to Miami?"

"You mean if I'd known you came to Miami?" she corrected gently.

He sighed deeply. "Is there no one in my entire organization that can keep a secret from you?" He had gone to Miami, the first night after her return; he had watched her sleep in a hospital room, but she had not woken, should not have known.

Lily laughed. "Tillman didn't tell me. I pulled your travel vouchers at the office."

"You _what_?"

"I pulled up your travel vouchers on the office computer."

"You shouldn't be able to do that," Control advised sternly. "And next time you're in, you will show me how you did it."

She sighed. "All right. But how am I supposed to know everything if I have to keep closing my own doors?"

"And whatever other shortcuts you're taking in the office. I need to know about them."

"Yes, dear," she agreed meekly.

"If you had known I was in Miami," he continued, gruffly, "would it have made a difference?"

"It would have been awful," Lily answered simply. "I would have begged."

"What?"

"I would have begged you to take me back. I'd been in this pretty dream world where we were still lovers, this perfect escape, and then I was in the hospital, just a battered broken meat thing, and I did not have you and had no hope of having you … if I'd seen you, I would have begged. Not figuratively, but slobbering on your shoes begged."

"But I _wanted_ you back."

"I wouldn't have known that. I would never have known that for sure, I would always have thought it was pity. I loathe pity, more than anything." Lily shrugged. "I needed time. To get my feet under me, to get some self-control – some self-respect."

"I thought you wouldn't see me because you hated me."

She shook her head. "It was never that."

"Oh, Lily, my sweet Lily." Control drew her against him, overwhelmed by the depth of feeling in her, in him. It pounded in his soul like heavy surf, threatened to push him down and drown him. Like walking through an earthquake, she'd said, but he hadn't expected to walk there with her. He had the sudden impulse to go hide under the bed. He had never felt like a giddy teenager when he was a teenager, and to experience it now, for the first time, was utterly bewildering. "Lily …" he said, choking on the single word.

"What's wrong, k_edves_?"

He tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. "I don't think … I can … talk anymore."

Lily laughed sweetly, the sound only adding to his bewilderment. "There's no need, love." She lay back on the comforter and drew him down to her.


	10. Chapter 10

"Welcome to Pristina, Mr. Dunham."

McCall smiled tightly at the eager desk clerk. They'd pegged him as a Westerner and a tourist the minute he came through the door; the entire hotel staff was obsequiously eager for tips. "Thank you."

"Your room is all ready. And I have a packet here from your travel agent." The clerk slid the thick packet across the counter, with just-barely obvious hesitation. "I've personally made sure that it was held safely for your arrival."

"Thank you," McCall said again. He took the packet, returned an American ten-dollar bill. "They were to arrange a car for me?"

"Oh, yes. It is in the hotel parking lot, just to the rear. And your keys are … here." The clerk searched and came up with them. Again the hesitation.

Robert scowled at him, took the keys, but offered no second tip. "Thank you very much," he said tightly. He tucked his materials into various pockets and turned away from the desk. The bellman followed, trudging under the weight of two suitcases. McCall could easily have made the trip with an overnight bag; everything else was ballast and camouflage.

His travel agent – Lily Romanov, under some other name – had booked him a suite, two bedrooms and a bathroom surrounding an uncrowded sitting room. It was mid-priced, nothing extravagant, but comfortable and seemed clean. McCall looked around with satisfaction after he'd paid off the bellman. The suite was at the front of the hotel. Both the living room and one bedroom had windows that overlooked the street. It was also the room furthest from the elevators, closest to the stairway. The third floor put it out of reach of burglars of convenience.

Acceptable, Robert decided with a nod. He took his car keys and found his way to the parking lot.

The sedan was perfectly ordinary in appearance. Four doors, black, ten years old and appropriately battered, the sort of car most commonly seen on the streets of Pristina or any other Communist Bloc city. Robert slid into the driver's seat and reached across to open the glove box. There was a book of local maps, bound with a plastic comb, with a cover that it announced that it had been produced by World Tours. Clipped to the front of the booklet was a blue card, neatly pre-printed, which read, 'Per Your Specifications'.

McCall considered the card warmly. The car, then, only appeared ordinary. The glass was bulletproof and the engine had been replaced with an upgrade. This battered little rental car would, properly driven, outrun anything in the city.

He replaced the maps, locked up the car, and went around to open the trunk. It was clean and empty. He pulled up the bottom carpeting and found only the spare and the jack. He frowned and replaced the carpet, stepped back to reconsider. Then he realized that the hood of the trunk was also lined with a panel. He glanced around, then snapped the panel down. There, in clips against the trunk lid, nested the three cases he'd been expecting. The first two were simple briefcases; the third was about twice as thick, and hopefully Robert would not need it. He took the two smaller cases back to his room.

The first case he opened contained weapons. An ankle holster fitted with a back-up gun and spare ammunition. A slender knife with an arm sheath. Two Walther PPK's, exactly like his favorite, with three clips each, and belt holsters. And another blue card, which read, 'Modified per your specifications'.

The second briefcase contained a great deal of cash.

McCall armed himself, and immediately felt a good deal more comfortable. The second Walther he left in the case; he presumed Lily thought he might give it to Gustav or to Harley, and it made sense to bring a second weapon that could use the same clips. He hid the two cases beneath the mattress in the second bedroom, put on his jacket, and went out into the city.

* * *

"Control, do you have a minute?"

Control looked up, annoyed. He was reading a report as he walked down the hall; did it look like he had a minute? His annoyance was tempered only by the fact that it was Simms who'd asked. "What?" he answered uninvitingly.

"Romanov. Do you have her personnel file?" The younger man fell into step beside him as Control continued towards his office.

"No. Why would I?"

"I don't know, but we can't find it anywhere else, I thought I'd ask before I launched a real search."

Control frowned. "It went to Florida. To her shrink."

"The shrink swears she sent it back. But it's not here, and it's not in DC." Simms' voice dropped. "I'm thinking maybe Jason pulled it."

"Not likely," Control answered, turning into his office. "Jason doesn't do his own research. Ever."

Simms sighed. "I know."

Control dropped into his chair and returned to reading the report. After a moment, he looked up. "Something else?"

The younger man hesitated. "I need an opinion."

"About Romanov?"

"Yes."

Control gestured to the chair, very carefully keeping his face blank. He had to be very careful not to give anything away, which meant not being overly enthusiastic, but not overly chilly, either. "Go ahead."

"I need a logistical coordinator in the Balkans," Simms explained. "I know I've got Olsen here, but I need somebody hands-on. Somebody who knows the area, knows the players, somebody who can work with the couriers and the field ops."

Control nodded his agreement. He'd been thinking along those lines himself, and was pleased that Simms came up with it on his own.

"Romanov seems like the obvious choice. She'd got the experience and the connections – and she can write a coherent report."

"Not an insignificant talent," Control agreed. "But?"

Simms hesitated. "But she's been through two major traumas in two years, and I'm not sure how solid she is."

Control grunted noncommittally.

As he hoped, the younger man went on. "I know she wasn't at fault in either of the incidents. I've read your report on the shooting; she basically took a bullet for you. And the whole Central America thing … well, we know the story on that. It's not that I think she's incompetent. I'm just concerned how she'll react under pressure. And there is going to be pressure in the Balkans, lots of it. I don't know how she'll respond."

"It is a valid concern."

"This arrest in Pristina worries me," Simms went on. "On her first trip back, coming right on the heels of the Nicaragua incident, I was very concerned that she'd come unstuck."

Control nodded thoughtfully. "You saw her when she got back. How did she seem to you?"

Simms floundered. "She seemed fine."

"Not unstuck?"

"Well, no." The man considered for a moment. "Oh."

Control shrugged and picked up his interrupted report again. Simms remained seated. "Something else?" he finally asked, grudgingly.

Simms picked his words very carefully. "She's got kind of a reputation."

His boss raised one interested eyebrow, but didn't answer.

"They say she'll try anything," Simms continued. He shrugged. "She's Mickey Kostmayer's favorite courier. That's got to tell us something."

Control's eyes narrowed in amusement. "What does it tell us, Simms?"

"That's she's highly effective, and probably crazy, just like him."

"Yes."

"There's a fine line between daring and reckless."

"Yes, there is." Control studied the man. "Do you have a question for me, or are you just thinking aloud?"

There was a pause. "I guess I'm asking if you think she's reliable."

Control sighed. "You said yourself, Simms, she took a bullet for me. You can't really expect me to be objective. But if I were really up against it, I'd rely on her absolutely."

Simms sighed in relief. "Thank you, sir. That's helpful."

Control let him get almost to the door before he spoke again. "You may not be able to talk her into it, you know."

"Sir?"

"Romanov is a rare breed in our field, Simms. She actually _likes_ her job."

The young man shook his head. "Nobody can be that attached to military transports and cheap hotels."

"Talk to her. Let me know."

"I will, sir. Thank you."

Control pretended to read the report until the young man was finally gone. He knew exactly what Simms had in mind for the woman; it would mean spending half her time in the Balkans, but half in New York, and it would mean a lot less time in danger. On a purely personal level, Control embraced the idea warmly. But he wasn't at all sure Lily was going to like it, and he was damn sure she was going to blame it on him.

* * *

McCall made his way cautiously up the narrow staircase. The railing was ornate, but rusty; he wasn't sure it would hold his weight, and the fall down the center of the stairs was significant. Not that he noticed, particularly, since he was most assuredly not afraid of heights. The boards of the stairs creaked alarmingly. He half-expected his foot to plunge through at any moment.

He didn't want to touch the wall on his opposite side, either. Some problem with the roof caused water to creep down the inside wall, covering it with a slime of dissolving plaster and yellow mold.

The building was cold and dank, even on a warmish spring day.

Robert trudged up to the seventh floor, looking around in dismay. Was it possible that Lily had given him the wrong address? With a sinking heart, he knew it wasn't. He could hope against hope, but this was the place.

He left the stairwell and walked down the hall to door 704. The hall was in no better repair than the staircase; the door showed signs of having been kicked in at least once. McCall knocked quietly, still clinging to a shred of hope.

The hope was lost when Harley Gage opened the door.

"Hello, Harley."

Gage stared at him. "Damn."

"May I come in?"

"Uh … no. I was just going out. Hey, McCall, good to see you. Let's go get some coffee. I was just headed that way."

McCall looked him up and down. The man was in his shirtsleeves and barefoot. "No, Harley. Let me in."

Harley's face showed that he knew he was caught. He stepped back and let McCall into the cluttered little room. There was a single bed, its metal frame rusted, a battered dresser, a hot plate, a window with a blanket hung over it, a bit of yellow slime on the wall. A suitcase, open, spilling everything that Harley probably still owned. And hanging on the back of the door, a brand-new, beautifully tailored suit. No doubt the Company had paid for that, for his recent assignment.

"Look," Harley was explaining, "I know how this looks, Robert. But it's just temporary. They, uh, they screwed up my pay checks, I'm just staying here until we get it straightened out …"

"You got fired again," Robert stated.

Gage sighed. "Yeah."

"Over a woman, I suppose."

"Something like that."

"You should have come back to New York."

"Yeah, and what? Tell you I screwed up again? Move into your guest room and let you find me another job? You put me back on my feet once, McCall. Once is enough. There's a limit to how much charity even I can take."

"That was not charity," McCall barked. "You helped me in New York. You helped my clients when I was unable to do so."

"Yeah, yeah." Harley flopped down on the edge of the bed. "Have a seat, McCall. Let me pour you a cup of mud. I suppose the girl sent you."

Robert considered the battered armchair, elected to stay on his feet. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

"And you're gonna pack me up and take me home? Clean me up and see if you can make something of me again? Give it up, McCall. This is what I am. This is the best I can do."

"I am not here to rescue you," McCall answered crisply. "I am here because I need your assistance."

Harley brightened considerably. "On a job?"

"Yes."

"An official job?"

"No. Off the books. But it may well serve to help your standing with the Company."

Gage shrugged. "Whatever. What do you need me to do?"

"There is some hazard involved, of course."

"Doesn't matter."

McCall looked around the wretched little room. "Pack your things," he said. "You won't be coming back here."

Harley stared at him for a long moment. Robert could feel the conflict in him. The man needed help, and knew it, but he still had his pride – perhaps it was the only thing he still had. "Please, Harley," he urged. "I cannot do this without you."

With a reluctant shrug, Gage stood up and began to pack.

* * *

They were barely back to Robert's hotel room before the telephone rang. "You want me to get that?" Harley asked, throwing his bag down.

Robert snarled at him. "I think not." He snatched the phone up. "Yes?"

"Mr. Dunham?" The voice was female, crisply accented, business-like. Familiar, for all of that. "This is Liesl from World Tours with your check-in call. Are all your arrangements satisfactory?"

"Oh, yes," Robert answered cheerfully. "Quite satisfactory. I feel like I'm being treated like a bit of a VIP, though."

"That's very kind of you to say, Mr. Dunham, but at this company we consider all our travelers VIP's."

"Well, that's new," he quipped.

"Were you able to locate your friend?"

"Yes. Your directions were quite good. I didn't have any trouble finding him."

"Good, good. If there's anything else you need, please don't hesitate to call. Our office in Pristina is listed in our brochure, and the phones are answered around the clock."

"I will keep that in mind," Robert promised. "Thank you for calling."

He hung up the phone and found Harley watching him speculatively. "What was that?"

"Our travel agent." Robert shrugged it off. "The girl we were discussing before."

"Oh. Her." Harley reclaimed his bag. "This my room?"

"For the moment." Robert had planned to lodge Gustav in the spare bedroom, but Harley needed it more immediately. Remembering his room made McCall want to shower – and more urgently, to make Harley shower. He sensed, though, that he'd pushed the man far enough for one day. "The bathroom is there," he said, pointing to a third door. "Make yourself at home."

"Okay." Harley took his stuff into the spare bedroom, came back. "You mind if I shower before dinner?"

"Please, feel free," Robert answered thankfully. While he was gone, McCall retrieved the second briefcase and began counting the money into stacks of $5,000 each.

* * *

"Mr. Misek. Come in, please."

Harley shook the man's hand warmly. "Commissar, thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"A pleasure, I assure you." The official had already noted the briefcase in Harley's hand. "Please, sit down. How can I help you this morning?"

Gage sat, put the case on the floor beside him. "You remember the young lady, Miss Webster?"

"The blond, with the attitude."

"That's the one. It seems that while she was here she befriended one of the other prisoners. A Mr. Freda?"

"Gustav Freda? The old man? He's been here longer than I have."

"Well, it turns out that Mr. Freda has family in the United States, in Chicago. Or, rather, his late wife did."

The commissar frowned at him. "Yes, and?"

Harley opened his hands in a shrug. "And being Miss Webster, she went home and looked them up. Now the family would like to see if Mr. Freda's release can be arranged as well."

The commissar stood up slowly. "Mr. Freda is a dangerous man, Mr. Misek. He is a dissident, a subversive. Surely you're not suggesting that I should let _him_ go with a fine, are you?"

"No, no, no," Harley said soothingly. "Of course not. Nothing of the sort. And to be frank, I told Miss Webster that I thought it unlikely that you would even meet with me, much less discuss this matter. But she was quite insistent, and her father … her father pays me well. So I had to agree to try. But certainly, if there is nothing to discuss …" He reached down and touched the handle of the briefcase.

The commissar's eyes followed his hand. "Now, Mr. Misek, let us not be hasty. If you have promised the young lady that we would discuss the matter, then of course we must discuss it. I would not have you dishonored in her eyes. But I do not think there is much to discuss. Moscow itself has dictated the terms of Mr. Freda's imprisonment, and I cannot go against the wishes of my superiors."

"No, of course not." Gage let the silence settle, his fingers tapping the handle of the case. "Still, he has been a prisoner a long time. He is an old man. It's hard to believe that he's a threat to anyone." The commissar was still eyeing the briefcase. "Hard to believe that anyone in Moscow even remembers that he's in prison here, much less why. Or that they care."

"Moscow pays for his maintenance here. And they pay a portion of my salary."

"I see," Harley answer regretfully. "Well, then." He brought the case onto his lap. "I really don't see that we have anything further to discuss. Thank you for your time. I'll be sure to tell Miss Webster … "

He was halfway to his feet before the official sprung for the bait. "Wait!" the man called sharply. "Perhaps … we can work something out."

Harley stayed seated, while the commissar paced. "We are not, as I've said, barbarians. And as you say, he is an old man. What possible harm can he do now? Let him live out his days in peace."

"Exactly," Gage agreed heartily. "Exactly my thinking."

"But he cannot stay here," the commissar insisted. "He must leave this country, and immediately."

"The sister insists that he should come to live with her, in Chicago."

"And you have the means to arrange that?"

Harley grimaced. "Mr. Webster's company has some … connections, I believe. I think it could be arranged, so long as the family is prepared to absorb the expense."

"The expense, yes. It is an expensive process." The man eyed the briefcase again. "I suppose that Moscow would not be much dismayed to learn that Gustav had died in prison, after all these years. Then it would simply be a matter of paperwork. Of course, obtaining such documents would be expensive also."

"Mr. Freda's family is prepared to reimburse you for any expense you might incur."

"And then there's the matter of the lost income. He might live here another ten years, with his stipend coming from Moscow every year."

"Ten years," Harley repeated uneasily. "Of course." He was glad it was McCall's money that was burning through the case in his lap; he could feel the gouge coming already. "What, uh, roughly, what kind of figure are we looking at here? Documents and all?"

The commissar paced for two full minutes. "This family, in Chicago. They are wealthy?"

"No," Harley answered. "They have a modest home, some retirement money saved, nothing more than that."

"Hmm. Well, perhaps Miss Webster could persuade her father to contribute to the cause of freedom."

"Ahhh … to be honest, I don't think Miss Webster will be asking for any more financial favors any time soon. Mr. Webster is still a bit peevish about the last time."

"I see." Two more minutes. "Fifty thousand dollars."

Harley exhaled hard. "Well, thank you for your time, commissar," he said, standing up, holding the case.

"This man's freedom is not worth such a sum to his family?"

"I'm sure it is," Harley explained, "but I'm also sure they can't come up with that kind of money. They were thinking more like fifteen, and even that's a huge stretch for them."

"Fifteen thousand dollars? To betray my superiors in Moscow? They mock me!"

"They don't mean to," Gage assured him, now talking himself out of his own cell. "I promise you, sir, they mean no insult. But they are not wealthy people."

"Twenty," the man said, with finality.

"I'll talk to them," Harley said with relief. "I'll see what they can do. Maybe a loan against the house or something. I'll call them right away. Thank you, sir."

He was all the way to the door before the commissar called him back. "This fifteen you spoke of. Is it here?"

Harley gestured to the case. "There's five here. The other ten is in the city, yes."

"In American dollars."

"Yes."

The commissar came closer, took possession of the briefcase. "Get it. Bring it back. I'll have Mr. Freda packed and ready to go."

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure that will make his family very happy. Very happy indeed."

* * *

"I would have gone fifty," McCall grumbled.

"Okay, then," Harley answered, his feet on the couch, his hands laced behind his head. "Pretend it was fifty, and I'll keep the change. It worked, McCall. What more do you want?"

"We _think_ it worked," Robert pointed out. "You may go back to find a goon squad waiting for you and our deposit long gone."

"Thanks," Harley answered dourly. "How soon do you want me to go back?"

"Oh, let's give it an hour, shall we?"

"And what do I do with this guy once I've got him?"

"Bring him back here. I don't suppose they'll try to follow him, but use a bit of caution."

"I always do."

Robert paused to look out the window. The street below was bustling; nothing caught his eye. "I think we'll set out as soon as it's dark," he mused. "They shouldn't try to pursue him, but I'll feel better once we're over the border."

"Uh-huh."

McCall looked back. Harley was sprawled on the couch, still in his dress shirt and pants, his brand-new dress shoes on the hotel couch, drifting quickly off to sleep. Robert sighed. He'd hoped, the last time, that his friend would manage to stay on his feet and out of trouble. Obviously that hope had been fruitless. Harley was a talented agent, a gifted liar, but he simply couldn't stay away from women. They got him into trouble every time.

Robert turned back to the window. Harley had been exactly right; he intended to haul him back to New York and rehabilitate him again. But only if the man wanted help. Robert was not about to waste his time on someone who didn't want assistance, and he hadn't the patience to tiptoe around Harley's pride.

There was a little coffee house directly across the street from the hotel, with outdoor tables where people were enjoying their morning coffee in the unseasonable warmth. A pretty, long-haired brunette was letting herself be chatted up by two young soldiers. It was clear from her body language, and theirs, that it would go no further than chatting. Robert watched her for a moment, shaking his head. Sweet Lily, he thought, I am not quite senile yet, you don't need to watch over me quite this close. But somehow knowing that she was brought him an unexpected feeling of comfort.


	11. Chapter 11

The exchange went, unexpectedly, without a hitch. Gage returned to prison in the middle of the morning with an additional ten thousand dollars. He was escorted to the commissar's office. Freda was waiting there, bewildered, dressed in an old suit, badly wrinkled, and his prison shoes, carrying a tiny, battered suitcase that held his personal effects from his cell.

The commissar was a bit cooler than he'd been previously; Harley got the distinct sense the man was reconsidering. He opened the case, flashed the money. "Here it is, sir. Just as we agreed."

The money seemed to thaw the atmosphere. "You understand," the commissar said, "there can be no official release papers issued. No paper trail of any kind. You will take Mr. Freda out of the country without delay, and I will report that he has died of natural causes."

"I understand completely." Harley glanced at the old man. He was standing very quietly, his case in both hands. His eyes were wide and nervous, but he didn't ask any questions. "Well. Ready to go?"

"Just … just like that?"

"Out the back," the commissar said gruffly. "Good day, Gustav. I hope I shall not see you again."

The old man went and carefully shook the official's hand. Then he let Harley lead him out.

Gage didn't much like the back door, though it made a certain sense to him. He had the nauseous feeling that the guard at his elbow was at any minute going to take a right turn and toss them both in a cell. Or that the back door would open and a bunch of Soviet thugs would throw them in a truck and drive them to somewhere more private. Or that they would get ten steps into the courtyard and be shot in the back.

None of that happened. They cleared the courtyard and were on the street. The old man stumbled and stopped.

"You okay?" Harley asked nervously. He took the suitcase from the man. They were still in the shadow of the prison wall. "Hey. Gustav!"

The old man was staring straight up at the sky as if he'd never seen it before.

"Gustav," Harley said, more quietly, "we gotta go."

The man finally looked at him squarely. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Robert McCall's."

"Oh." Freda nodded, very slowly. "Oh. Then we should be on our way."

"Yes, we should. This way."

Gage drove around the city for a bit, looking for tails and enjoying the throaty purr of the car. Such an ugly little car, but the way it handled made him want to take it out on a highway and open it up just to see the look on the other drivers' faces. Gustav didn't complain about the scenic route. He seemed content just to look around his city again. Finally, satisfied that they weren't being followed, Harley returned to the hotel

McCall was loitering around at the newsstand. "Just keep going," Harley said softly, taking Freda by the elbow and steering him to the elevators. "He'll meet us upstairs." He got the man into the suite and waited; a good ten minutes passed before McCall came up. "Clean?" Harley asked.

"It looks that way," Robert answered. "Gustav." He shook the old man's hand warmly. "It is good to see you again."

"And you, Robert. I was not sure you would get my message – or that you would care."

"Well, as it happens, you put your message in the care of a very persuasive messenger."

"Miss Webster, I presume?"

"Yes. How did you know she was ours?"

Gustav shrugged. "She was not stupid, but she was not terrified. She had the air of a woman who'd been in much worse places. I did not know she was yours, but I thought I would take the chance."

"And here you are," Robert said warmly. "Are you well? Do you need medical attention?"

"I am well," Freda replied. "I could do with a good long bath, and perhaps a new suit. And a meal. A steak, perhaps?"

More habit than concern, McCall went to the window and looked out again. The woman was long gone, as were the soldiers. "Of course. Of course. All of that is easily arranged. Then after dark we will make our way to the border."

"No."

McCall turned. "One of the terms of your release is that we take you out of the country immediately. You refused to leave before because of your wife, but you told L – Miss Webster, that your wife was now dead."

"My wife is dead," Freda answered quietly. "My daughter and her daughter are still alive. I will not leave without them."

"Oh, man," Harley said, "you gotta be kidding."

"Gustav, be reasonable," Robert answered. "Let me get you out, and we'll arrange conventional visas for your daughter and her child."

"No. They leave with us."

"It's impossible, Gustav." It wasn't impossible, Robert knew; no doubt the resourceful Miss Romanov could arrange more documents for them. But it would be damn difficult, and dangerous. "We'll come back for them, once you're safely out."

"They leave with us," the old man said firmly.

"No."

"McCall. They leave with us. You will arrange it."

"I will not, Gustav. I have bought your way out of prison with my own money, and I have prepared a route for you out of the country. I am willing to help you; I am willing to try to get your family out as well, but not now, not like this."

"You will arrange it," Gustav said again, with certainty. "You have no choice."

"That was the wrong answer," Harley said under his breath.

McCall drew a deep angry breath. "I most certainly do have a choice, Gustav. You are of no value to the intelligence community. I am here as a private citizen. Therefore I am under no orders of any kind, and I will not be …"

"I know where the General's cabbages are."

Robert stopped in mid-word. Stared at the slender old man. His eyes narrowed into a fearsome glare. "You _what_?" he demanded.

Freda was unimpressed by his show of temper. "I know where General Rydecki's cabbages are," he said calmly.

"You swore to me, Gustav, you _swore_ to me that you didn't know."

"I lied."

"Damn you to hell! How could you have lied about that?"

"What the hell are the cabbages?" Harley asked innocently.

McCall ignored him. "Do you have any idea how many lives you have put at risk? It has been more than ten years, Gustav. Ten _years_! Millions of people might have died. How could you lie about something like that? How could you? I _trusted_ you!"

"What are you talking about?" Gage tried again.

"Millions of people may still die," Gustav answered. "I will not give you the locations until my family and I are safely in the West."

Robert closed on him in three strides. "You will give me every location and every detail, right now, or so help me, Gustav …"

Gage got between them. "Can somebody please tell me what's going on?"

"Tell him," Robert growled, striding back to the window. "Go ahead. Tell him."

Gustav remained silent. The room grew still, crackling with McCall's anger. He glared out across the street, at a blameless woman with her babe in a carriage sipping coffee in the afternoon sun. Finally he drew a breath and turned. "We will try it your way," Robert said, still furious. "But if anything goes wrong, anything at all, you will give me the locations. All of them."

"I do not think you will torture a helpless old man," Freda said, none too smugly.

"We shall hope we don't have to find that out." McCall grabbed the phone and his travel brochure. He dialed the number furiously.

"World Travel," a man's voice answered.

"I'm looking for Liesl," Robert barked.

"She'd not available just now. Is there something I can help you with?"

No, Robert thought viciously, she can't come to the phone because she's out traipsing around with soldiers in coffee houses. "Tell her," he snapped, "that we're going to extend our stay here a few days."

"I'll be glad to pass that message along. Anything else I can assist you with?"

McCall frowned. He was so angry he couldn't remember codes, much less think how to phrase them conversationally. "Perhaps you could recommend a good restaurant near here. I'm looking for something completely different. Something extremely hot and spicy."

"Of … course," the man answered, with the barest hitch. "Let me just check my guide for you." He was back in fifteen seconds with a restaurant name and address. "They open for lunch at eleven-thirty," he said. "Shall I make a reservation for you?"

"No," Robert answered, more calmly now. "We're quite hungry. I think we'll just go and wait if we need to."

"Very good, sir. And I'll be sure to let Liesl know you called."

"Do that. Thank you."

McCall put down the phone and glanced at his watch. It was 11:15 already. He turned to Freda. "You will give me one location now. I cannot proceed without proof."

The old prisoner hesitated for a long moment. Something in McCall's eyes finally made him back down. He wrote a series of numbers on a sheet of hotel stationary and handed it over. "That is the only one you will get until I am in America with my child and grandchild."

"Yes, Gustav, you've made your point." Robert studied the numbers for a moment. They could not possibly be pointing where he thought they were. Or perhaps they could. In any case, he was none too pleased with his old friend. He retrieved the second Walther and clips and gave them to Harley. "Watch him," he barked. "No one comes in here except me."

"Got it."

Robert nodded. He was still angry, and the situation was bloody awful, but at least he had reliable help on hand. "Thank you, Harley," he said, with great sincerity. He checked his own gun and went out.

* * *

McCall studied the little restaurant's menu morosely. He'd been hoping for something that would take a while to prepare, that gave him a little time to sit and wait. Nothing on the sparse little menu was much help. Beef stew. Chicken and dumplings. Meatloaf. He sighed quietly. Well, the place had been close to the hotel and unobtrusive. He supposed he couldn't expect more on short notice. He'd order, he decided, and if she didn't show by the time he was done eating, he'd think of something else.

As it turned out, however, no back-up plan was necessary. After he'd ordered, but before his ready-made food arrived, a young woman entered the restaurant and came to the counter. "I am picking up the lunch order for the bank meeting?" she told the waitress.

McCall looked her up and down swiftly. Her hair was up tightly, her body almost entirely concealed under an ill-fitting dress, heavy stockings, sensibly unstylish shoes. Her make-up seemed a bit heavy, but that was not uncommon in this part of the world. Just another career girl, running errands for her boss.

"Oh, yes, they called. It will be just a few minutes."

The young woman nodded. "Do you have a restroom?"

"That way."

She went. After a moment, Robert got up and followed her.

The bathroom was tiny and cold. Lily stood sideways between the sink and the wall to make room for him. "Charming," Robert observed, locking the door.

"At least it's indoors," Lily pointed out

"Yes. You got here very quickly."

"'Extremely hot and spicy,'" she quoted. "What's wrong?"

"Mr. Freda has a daughter and a granddaughter. He is refusing to leave the country without them."

"Did you tell him he's going to die in prison?"

McCall shook his head. "I told him we'd do it."

"Did you tell him we're all going to die in prison?"

She hadn't, Robert noticed, refused, though her assessment of the situation was probably correct. "Mr. Freda has information which is vitally important to us … to the intelligence community."

"What do you need me to do?"

Ah, Robert thought, but it was good to work with professionals. No argument, no debate, not from this one. Not from Harley, either. "I need you to get in touch with Control immediately. Tell him what I've told you, and tell him that Freda knows the location of the general's cabbages."

"Cabbages."

"Yes. Red cabbages."

She didn't ask for explanation. "Go on."

"Tell him I – we – need all the support he can send us, as soon as he can send it." She didn't remind him that they were running strictly off the books. Robert saw that she already knew that the nature of their mission had changed dramatically. "Tell him I want everyone in the area, and I want Kostmayer. Tell him, above all, that Freda absolutely will not disclose the information until he is safely in the West with his family."

"Is that all?"

"That's first. Then I will need supplies, but we'll cover that later."

Lily glanced at her watch. "I won't have a decent comm window for at least an hour. I can reach him, but it'll be damn fragile."

"Call him at home if you have to. You have the number?"

The woman's mouth tightened, just a fraction. "Yes."

"And a code you can use?"

"I'll come up with something. Where do you want to take Freda?"

"What's the status of the safe houses?"

Lily shook her head. "I have three that I rate less than six in ten for security. We have two new ones, but they're less than 48 hours old. If we get out of the city …"

"He won't leave the city until his family is gone."

"Maybe we can go inter-community. I'll see what I can do."

"Good. But be discreet. Control first. Then meet us at the hotel."

"All right." She started to leave.

"Lily. You're not even going to ask what the cabbages are, are you?"

"If you think I need to know, you need to tell me. I am not in the habit of asking questions."

McCall nodded slowly. "Fourteen years ago, a man named General Rydecki planned to overthrow the Communist government and establish a free state in Yugoslavia. He obtained a MRV rocket with eighteen nuclear warheads, which he threatened to fire on Moscow. He was killed by the Soviets before he could make use of the weapon. The rocket was recovered, but the warheads were not with it. Rydecki had hidden them all over Europe. The Soviets subsequently recovered nine of them, and the French located one. The other eight have never been found. Gustav Freda was one of Rydecki's lieutenants."

"And he knows where the nukes are."

"Yes."

"And you let this guy sit in prison for a decade?" she asked, her voice betraying emotion for the first time.

"He swore to me that he didn't know where they were. I believed him."

Romanov took a long, slow breath, and then another one. Robert could almost hear the gears turn in her head as she processed the information. In the space of those two breaths, she was on top of it. "Control will want proof."

McCall brought out the scrap of paper. "I don't have to tell you to be careful with this," he said, handing it over.

"No." She tucked it away. "So much for our little cakewalk mission."

"Indeed. But at least I can apply for expense reimbursement from the Company. On your way, now. Find a phone, reach Control. Then we'll go from there."

The woman squeezed out past him. Robert counted to a hundred, slowly, before he followed her out. Reliable help was indeed a fine thing to have.

A large regiment of well-armed men would have been even better.

* * *

Control was already awake when his phone rang. It was nearly six in the morning; he'd jolted himself out of a dream, a nightmare, something about Cambodia, or maybe Vietnam. There were so many nightmares, it was hard to keep them straight. The only time he truly slept any more was with Lily beside him. For years before her, he'd barely slept at all.

He turned to glare at the phone. It would be Message Central with some new crisis. A fine way to start the day. He wondered why they hadn't paged him instead.

After the third ring, he answered. "Hello."

"Hi, Dad. It's Laurie."

Control sat straight up in bed. He was instantly alert, tense; he was already reaching for his gun, for whatever good that would do. Lily would never, never call him at home, never unless there was something so horribly wrong that there was absolutely no other choice. "Laurie?" he snapped.

"Oh, did I wake you? Sorry, I forgot about the time change. I can call back."

"No," he said quickly, too harshly. "No. I'm awake now." His mind processed a handful of details about this call. From the static and the lag, he could tell she was still overseas. His phone might be bugged; it was certainly not secured at her end. She was not hurt or frightened; her tone was light and casual. All right. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just thought I'd call, I haven't talked to you since last week. I really didn't mean to wake you, I just forgot." She was babbling, giving him time to collect himself and wake up.

"You're not in jail again, are you?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm fine, Dad. I just wanted to call, that's all. Oh, Uncle Bob says hi."

Uncle Bob says hi. Control almost laughed out loud. "How is the old boy?"

"He's fine," she chatted on. "We met his old friend like we were supposed to."

"So you'll be home soon."

Lily snorted in exasperation. "We should be, but, oh, man, this old guy wants to go to his house and get all this luggage. He's got, like, one big bag and one or two little bags – I don't know how we're going to get them all in the car. But he won't leave without them."

"You could ship them ahead." So far, Control was with her. But why was she calling him at home?

"That's what I said. I don't know if I can talk him into it. He says it's really important stuff, he doesn't want to let it out of his sight."

"Can't your uncle reason with him?"

"Oh, don't get me started. Uncle Bob's as bad as he is. Can't leave anything important behind. You'd think we were never coming back. And they are so _boring_, Dad. All they talk about is gardening all the time. These gardens here and those gardens there, who's got the best roses and the best shrubs, and we should go to London and see the botanical gardens, and this crazy old colonel or general or something they used to know who planted vegetables all over Europe and could we go find all his gardens … they're driving me crazy, Dad."

"Vegetables?"

"Vegetables. You know, carrots and peas and cabbages and stuff. Oh, yeah, _red_ cabbages, not the common green ones, you know, but red cabbages, like that makes a difference."

Control swung his feet to the floor, his blood suddenly ice. "Red cabbages," he mused, as casually as he could. Becky had been looking for red cabbages. General Rydecki's red cabbages. He should have known.

"Look, seriously," Lily continued blithely, "they're boring me to death. Can't I just leave them and go ahead to London or somewhere? If I have to spend one more day listening to these old coots talk about the good old days …"

"Laurie," Control interrupted firmly, "you only got to go on this trip on the condition that you stay with your uncle. He's supposed to be keeping you out of trouble."

"I won't get in any trouble, I promise. Like I could if I wanted to. There aren't even any interesting men here."

"That was part of the point, dear. You have too many interesting men in your life."

"But, Dad …"

"What about the one with the perfect hair you told me about? Isn't he still in town?"

She sighed loudly. "Yeah, there's him. For all the use he is."

"It's nearly the weekend, Laurie," Control soothed. "I'm sure by tomorrow the town will be full of interesting men."

"I doubt it," she snorted.

"It's an educational opportunity, Laurie. Broaden your horizons, look around. You need some international flavor in your life. I'm sure there are friends to be found there. Sometimes you have to make the first move. Take a little chance once in a while."

"Yeah, yeah. But I really just want to come home."

"No, you don't. You just want to get away from adult supervision."

"I'm not a baby! I don't need a chaperone."

"Of course not, dear. But stay with your uncle anyhow. Do as he tells you."

"Oh, fine. I knew that's what you were going to say."

Control took a deep breath. "I've got a package going out to the branch office today. Do you want me to send you anything?"

There was a pause. "Well, if I'm going to be stuck here, could you send my bear and my mouse? I think they're on my bed."

"Of course." Her bear and her mouse. Teddy Roelen, Mickey Kostmayer. As good as done.

"Oh, and can you renew my license plates for me? I won't be home before they expire, and it costs extra if you're late."

"You should have thought of that before you left."

"I thought I'd be back. I've got my registration with me. You want the number?"

"It will probably help." He reached to the bedside table drawer for a pen and pad. "Go ahead."

She rattled off a number to him, and he wrote it down dutifully. "All right, I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Dad. I'm really sorry I woke you."

"I don't mind," Control answered, sincerely. "It's good to hear your voice first thing in the morning.

There was a long pause. "I'll talk to you later," she promised.

"All right."

"Bye." The line went dead. Control hung up the receiver and stared at the number on the pad. A point here, a point there. Assuming it was Europe, one could also assume north latitude, west longitude. One location, one of eight missing warheads. He'd need a map to be sure, but it looked like the center of England. Maybe London itself. Red cabbages. They would have to proceed on the assumption that the old man knew where the other seven were.

He closed his eyes and thought, hard, for one minute. A simple little retrieval. Robert McCall and Lily Romanov, out there alone, with no back-up, with this man who knew such a very, very important secret. Frankly, Freda could hardly be in better hands. For one moment, though, Control let himself consider that he could lose both his lover and his best friend at the same time.

There was nothing to be done but to trust them.

He got back on the phone.

"Message Central."

"It's Control. I'm headed for the office. I want all my lieutenants there when I get there. No exceptions. And locate Kostmayer."

He slammed the phone down and hurried to dress.


	12. Chapter 12

McCall stared moodily out the front window, watching the street. People came and went from the coffee shop, but no one lingered long enough to catch his eye. Gustav was contentedly soaking in the tub. Harley was pacing.

"Harley," Robert finally said, as gently as he could, "please stop that."

"Well, what am I supposed to do, McCall? We can't just wait around here. Let's snatch up the girl and hit the road. We've got the car. We can make it out."

"No." Robert did not turn from the window. "Nothing has changed, Harley, except our view of the situation. There is no need to run, at least not yet. We will go, but in an orderly fashion, as planned, when our back-up is in place. Panic is our worst enemy just now."

"Really? I would have thought nuclear warheads were our worst enemy just now."

McCall did not answer. Harley moved closer. "Robert, how in the hell did this happen? How could you let that guy sit in prison for all these years with those locations?"

"He lied to me," Robert answered, still looking away. "I have a great failing, you see, Harley. I am inclined to believe that men are sincere, that they mean what they say." He glanced at his companion. "I have the terrible habit of giving them the benefit of the doubt."

Harley looked away. "I didn't deserve that, McCall."

"No, you didn't," Robert admitted at once, turning back to the window. "Believe me, Harley, I am perfectly aware of how great a fool I was, and what the consequences of that mistake could have been. Or may still be. But I am determined not to make any further mistakes."

The phone rang, startling both of them. Cautiously, Robert went and answered it. "Yes?"

"Mr. Dunham?"

McCall recognized the man's voice. "Yes?"

"This is Basil from World Travel. Liesl has asked me to call you with a travelers alert."

"Oh, really?"

"It seems that a prisoner has escaped from the jail in the vicinity of your hotel. As far as we can tell he is not especially dangerous, but the local authorities are conducting a search for him. You are likely to encounter significant delays at checkpoints and at the train station. It is recommended that for the next few hours you stay safe at home."

McCall closed his eyes and swore to himself in every language he knew. "Well. That is useful information, thank you. Will you give us a call when this prisoner is recovered?"

"I will certainly do that, Mr. Dunham. However, there may be more information available at the newsstand in your hotel."

"Yes, of course. Thank you so much for calling."

McCall slammed the phone down. "Freda! Get out of the tub and get dressed. Now!" He turned to Harley. "Go down to the newsstand. Someone will meet you there with the address of a safe house. Then get the car and bring it around back. We're moving. Now."

"Why? What's happened?"

Robert growled, "It is so hard to buy good help these days."

* * *

Harley bought a paper, let the young man bump into him. When he got to the car, he had a key and an address in his pocket. He pulled the car to the back door, and in two minutes McCall came out, shoving the old man in front of him. "Get in," he barked. He pushed the man into the back of the car, tossed the three cases onto the seat next to him. "Harley, open the trunk."

Robert got the bigger case, slammed the trunk, and came around to the driver's door. "You know where we're going?"

"Yep."

"Good. Take this. I'll drive."

Harley hesitated, then moved over. "What's in here?"

"Supplies. Open it." Robert steered into city traffic.

Gage popped the case open, whistled softly. "That girl has a thing for grenades, doesn't she?"

Robert didn't answer. At the stoplight, he surveyed the contents of the case with a critical eye. Everything he had asked for, and a few extra goodies. Everything he would have needed if he'd had to blast Freda out of the prison. It wasn't precisely the gear he'd need to protect the man, but a flash grenade had multiple uses. It was better than nothing.

He was already composing a new list in his mind, secure in the knowledge that whatever he asked for, Lily Romanov could acquire.

"There," Harley, said, pointing to a winding, wooded driveway.

"No," Robert answered, and kept driving.

"Did I miss something?"

"The panel van across the street." McCall turned the next corner and slowed. "Go and see. I'll meet you on the block behind."

"Great," Gage answered. He waited until the car had nearly stopped, then jumped out. As soon as the door was shut, Robert resumed speed.

"Could they have found us here already?" Gustav fussed from the back seat.

Robert shook his head. "I don't know. I wouldn't think so." He made a broad, wide circle around the neighborhood, and was relieved when he got to the meeting point to see Harley on the curb.

His friend got back in the car. "It's okay," he said, relieved. "They're with us."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I know Ted Roelen from way back."

"Good." Robert circled the block one more time and turned up the driveway. "Stay here," he said to Gustav, parking behind the house. "We'll take a look around."

McCall left Harley to check out the back, keeping the car in sight. He himself took the front and side yards. It was a good place; the yard was wide and clear, but there was ample cover thirty yards out. Easy to defend, hard to rush. The house itself was built of gray quarried stone; it would stop most bullets. The windows were high and narrow, and there were plenty of them on every side of the structure. With a last look around, Robert opened the front door and went inside.

The interior of the safe house was a bit less luxurious than his hotel room had been. The furniture was well worn and mismatched. It was clean enough, though, and they weren't here for comfort. The floor plan was circular; every room opened to two others, so there was no way to get trapped. The kitchen was stocked with staples, some with German labeling, but the refrigerator was empty. Upstairs, four bedrooms held a total of ten single beds. All had excellent window views of the yard.

Robert nodded his satisfaction and went to bring Freda in. He nodded to Harley. "Go get our friends, will you?"

"You got it."

McCall took Freda to a couch in the living room, away from the windows, and pointed. "Sit there and stay there until we get things set."

"I don't understand what's happened," the old man complained. "I felt safer when I was in prison."

"You _were_ safer when you were in prison," McCall snarled. "Stay there."

He went back to the kitchen and watched as the van pulled around. A very tall blond man got out of the passenger side and dispersed the rest of his men – five of them – to various corners of the yard. Harley shook his hand and brought him into the kitchen. "Robert McCall? Ted Roelen."

"It's an honor, sir," Roelen said unabashedly.

His hand dwarfed McCall's as they shook; he was at least three inches taller than Harley, and fifty pounds heavier. Not, Robert thought, the most concealable of covert operatives. But the man's quiet manner pleased him. "You got here very quickly. Thank you. What are your orders, exactly?"

"They are exactly to do whatever you tell us."

"Good, good. Where are the rest of your men?"

Roelen frowned, puzzled. "The rest?"

"A standard squad is eight, is it not?"

The blond looked actually embarrassed. "Um, no, sir. Since the budget cuts, a standard squad is six. We're all here."

"Bloody marvelous. Where's Romanov?"

"She'll be along shortly. She said she had to stop at a cache."

McCall nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Harley, see if you can find some coffee, will you? Then we'll figure out what we do next."

"Ah …" Harley hedged, "the girl's coming here?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Harley, this is business. Whatever you're so nervous about, whatever past you may have with that girl, I assure you she has no interest in resuming it. Now let it go."

"No, you don't …"

"Coffee, Harley. Now."

By the time the coffee was done in the ancient stove-top percolator, McCall had his spare men set where he wanted them: two in the brush in diagonal corners of the yard, two upstairs in the bedrooms, and the last – who looked to Robert to be all of sixteen – in the living room watching Gustav. Gage and Roelen had looked the place over and found no obvious bugs.

A low whistle sounded from the yard, and then one of the men called down from upstairs, "Front door."

McCall went and looked. Lily Romanov was trundling up the walk, with a largish cardboard box under her arm and a metal suitcase that seemed very heavy in her other hand. She would, he guessed, have taken a cab, or perhaps a bus, gotten off a few blocks away. So far, he was pleased at everyone's conduct on this operation. Of course, it was bloody early to be writing congratulatory notes to Control on the fact that the Company had not, in fact, gone straight to hell in Robert's absence.

He let her in the front door, taking the heavy case from her. "Ammunition?" he inquired.

"And radios, and a few other toys." She put the cardboard box down. "Things good? I see Teddy's here."

"Fine, so far. What happened at the prison?"

Lily scowled. "Visitors from Moscow. Might have been a coincidence. Probably was, as fast as they showed up. The commissar ran the whole sirens and dogs thing, like Gustav had just broken out. There're cops everywhere. You have any trouble getting out?"

Robert shook his head. "No, we managed to get ahead of them. Thank you for getting word to us so quickly. This is a German safe house?"

Lily nodded. "Private arrangement, off the books. They think I needed a spot to tryst."

Harley came in in time to catch this last comment. "It always comes back to sex with you, doesn't it, Romanov?"

"Kiss my ass, Gage," she returned sweetly. She looked past him. "Teddy Bear!" she called joyously, and launched herself at the tall blond.

Roelen plucked her out of the air and held her in a bear hug, her feet dangling a foot or more over the ground. "Flower girl! And you didn't even land in jail this time."

"There's still time for that," she answered.

"Did you bring my mail?"

Lily sighed, still caught in his massive arms. "Ted, honey, this was not a standard mission. I wasn't even supposed to see you guys, I couldn't have planned for all of this."

"Oh."

"Of course I have your mail."

Roelen grinned, dropping the girl. He became aware, for the first time, of Robert's disapproving gaze. "Uh, thanks, Lil," he said, a little embarrassed.

Lily was completely unfazed. "And Girl Scout cookies."

"Yes!"

She opened the cardboard box and began to rummage through the mail. There were cookies, and socks, and magazines.

"I bet you didn't bring any coconut ones," one of the upstairs men called from the top of the stairs.

"I bet you're wrong," Lily called back cheerfully. She extracted two boxes, went to the stairs, and tossed one of them up. "I know what you like, sweetie."

"Thanks, Lil."

"Thin mints?" the other man called.

"Catch!" she called back, throwing the other box.

"Children!" Robert bellowed. "If we are done with the touching reunion, could we possibly focus on the acutely life-threatening matter at hand?"

"Uh … sorry," Lily said, with token contriteness. "Is that coffee? I'll bring it."

McCall sighed heavily. He went to the dining room table, which was bare and badly scarred, and sat down, gesturing for Harley and Ted to join him. "Gustav?" he called. "Come in here, will you?"

The old man came in and sat down. His assigned minder, the apparent teen whose name Robert could not recall, drew up a chair and sat watchfully in the doorway. He popped to his feet, however, when Lily returned from the kitchen. She had two mugs of coffee in each hand, her fingers looped through the handles. "Can I help?" he asked quietly, eagerly.

"No, I've got it," Lily answered. She put the four mugs down on the table, then went back to the kitchen.

"This is Gustav Freda," Robert began, to Roelen. "Our objective is to get him safely out of the Bloc."

"I've told you," Gustav began, "I will not …"

"Shut up," Robert answered tersely. "Our secondary objective," he continued, "is to also extract his daughter and granddaughter. We will attempt to do that simultaneously, but be very clear about this: If anything goes wrong, anything at all, you will get Mr. Freda, alive, to Control, no matter what."

"I will not be treated …"

"That," Robert said crisply, "is the best deal you're going to get, Gustav, so I suggest you accept it. I do not know Mr. Roelen here personally, but I am quite sure he is capable of tossing you in a black bag and hauling you out. Understand?"

The old man glowered, but fell silent.

Lily returned with a plate of shortbread cookies, which she set down at Robert's elbow. He glanced up at her; they were, of all the Girl Scout varieties, his favorite, which she doubtless knew. But she was already moving away again. His gaze shifted to Roelen, who was studying Freda. The tall man did not, he noted, ask why the little man was so important.

"What next?" Harley asked, reaching for a cookie.

"First, we will need your daughter's address. I'm quite sure the authorities will be watching her house by now, so we'll have to find a way to work around that. Is there anyone else in the household?"

"No," Gustav said grudgingly. "Only her and the child."

"Where's the child's father?"

"He was a sailor. They never married."

Robert noted, without attention, that Lily had returned with a cup of coffee for the youngest man, that he took it with a look of disturbing admiration. She leaned against the doorframe beside him, sipping her own coffee, oblivious to his gaze. "What sort of home is it?" he asked Freda. "An apartment or a single home?"

Freda shrugged. "I do not know. I have been in prison. She's never said. I never thought to ask."

"We'll go take a look," Roelen offered. "Give me the address."

Lily produced a note pad and pen and set them in front of Gustav. He looked up at her, recognizing her for the first time. "Miss Webster."

"Something like that," she agreed.

"The address," Robert prompted. Gustav wrote. McCall tore the sheet off the pad and gave it to Roelen. "Take him with you," he said, gesturing to the young man. "There're enough of us here. Take the car, it's a bit less conspicuous. Get back as soon as you can."

When they were gone, Lily came and sat at the table with the remaining men. Harley glanced at her uneasily, but didn't speak. McCall sighed. He felt like he was the housemaster at a home for juvenile delinquents. "When will Kostmayer be here?"

"Sometime tonight," Lily promised. "He was in Poland."

"Good." Robert turned his attention back to Gustav. "Are you quite certain that your daughter wants to defect? Will she go with us, or is she likely to resist?"

The old man looked at him blankly. "My grandchild will be raised in a free country," he said.

"Which means you've got no clue," Harley said. "McCall, I can think of ten ways this can go south, not the least of which is this daughter digging her heels in."

"How old's the child?" Lily asked practically.

"Two. She was two last month."

"She's talking," Robert observed.

"Oh, yes. She knows a great many words."

McCall and Romanov exchanged a look. Two was probably the worst age: Old enough to say awkward things, old enough to scream and tantrum, too young to understand the need for silence. "All right," Robert said slowly. A vague plan was forming in his mind; he needed more information to confirm the details. "Gustav, you will sit here now and write a letter to your daughter. You will tell her who we are, that she should trust us, and that she should leave with us immediately. You must find a way to convince her."

"But I will be with you, I can talk to her …"

"No. The authorities will be watching her. The last thing we're going to do it take you to her."

"But she is my daughter …"

"You can see your daughter in New York. Until then, you will not speak to her. Understand?"

Gustav frowned. "This is not how I envisioned my rescue, McCall."

"Yeah, well," Lily answered, "it's not really what we had in mind, either."


	13. Chapter 13

Simms rapped quietly on the doorframe. "Do you have a minute?"

"You have news?" Control asked sharply.

"No. No update. Just a question."

Control closed the folder and gestured him into the chair. "What's on your mind?"

"Romanov. Again." Simms shifted in the chair, but Control did not answer. "Don't me wrong, I'm damn glad she was on hand when McCall decided he needed help. But I've got to wonder why." Still no reaction from Control. "It reads like she was freelancing for him while she was on a mission for us."

"Ahh." Control nodded. "It does, doesn't it?"

"You knew about it." Simms sounded relieved. "That's really all I needed to know."

"Yes, it is." Control considered for a moment. "McCall is my friend. That's openly known. But he's also a former agent with a lot of secrets in his head. I cannot afford to have him fall into Soviet hands. He was determined to go to Yugoslavia. Short of chaining him up in the closet, the best I could do was send a minder with him."

"But … Romanov's just a courier."

"McCall wouldn't have tolerated a bodyguard, and we don't have anyone on payroll good enough to tail him. He asked Romanov to get his supplies in. That gave her the opportunity to keep in touch with him."

"But if the situation had escalated …"

"The situation did escalate, and she let us know immediately. Which is what I sent her for."

"Oh." Simms stood up. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"It was a legitimate concern. You learn things by asking questions, Simms. Just don't always expect to get an answer."

"Yes, sir." He got up and moved to the door, then stopped, turned back and hesitated.

Control had already re-opened the folder and resumed reading. "What?" he prompted.

Simms cleared his throat. "How did Romanov get your home phone number?"

Control had been in the business when Simms was still in diapers. No trace of hesitation, no hint of tension, gave away the sudden coldness that ran through his veins. He finished the note he'd been making, then glanced up, unconcerned. "I assume McCall gave it to her," he answered casually.

"Oh. Of course."

Control's attention was already back to his report.

* * *

Roelen returned with a rough sketch of the daughter's neighborhood. "It's a townhouse," he explained. "Second from the end of the row. Front door, back door. Very narrow alley in back. We got cops at both ends of the alley, and two camped across the street from the front."

"I suppose they're very attentive," Robert said.

"For the moment, yes. They all have radios, and they appear to be checking in every fifteen minutes."

McCall scowled. His best hope had been to take out one end of the alley, but that was fading. He brought out his World Tours book of maps. "Where is it in the city?"

"Umm …"

"Here," Lily said, pointing to the north side of the city, unerringly. She bent to look closer. "Right … here."

"What's this?" McCall asked, pointing to a wide bare spot on the map.

"It's a park."

"Is there a playground?"

Lily looked at him blankly. "You got me on that one."

McCall glanced out the window. The light had only begun to fade. "Let's go take a walk in the park, shall we?"

* * *

There was indeed a playground, rusty and small, with half a dozen larger children, two smaller ones with their mothers. The expanse was wide and grassy, with a few decorative bushes, badly maintained, scattered about. McCall walked slowly, with Lily's arm tucked through his, looking around. "I don't know," he sighed. "I'd like more cover."

"Over there," Lily offered, nodding to the back of the park. A worn foot trail circled the whole park; at the back, it led to thin line of shrubs before the next street.

"No," Robert answered slowly. They continued to walk on the path. "Tell me, do you bring cookies to all your agents?"

"When I can," Lily answered unabashedly. "Or something like that."

"You spoil them."

"I told you. I treat all my clients like VIPs."

"For extra protection?"

"Hmmm?"

"If you get into trouble," Robert explained, "every one of those men will remember fondly that you brought him cookies. Making him ever so marginally more willing to do whatever it takes to rescue you."

"Such a cynic you are," Lily answered. "Believe it or not, I very rarely need rescuing."

"Then why?"

She considered for a moment. "You forget what it's like to live out here, don't you? How one box of cookies can connect you back to the world where everybody's not trying to kill you?"

"I haven't forgotten," Robert answered. "I just don't recall that a courier ever brought me cookies in the field."

"If you hadn't retired when you did, I would have."

"It's not exactly by the book."

Lily chuckled. "You may have noticed that adherence to the rules is not one of my strong points."

"Control has no idea, does he? He doesn't have a clue how you operate out in the field."

"He knows I get things done. And twenty bucks worth of Girl Scout cookies are not exactly likely to create an international incident."

"No. I don't suppose they are." His eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

Lily followed his gaze. "Pedestrian walkway. It goes under the street."

"It does, doesn't it?" Robert ambled towards it. "And over there, such very nice cover." They walked into the tunnel, down the steps, under the street, and up the other side. There was indeed beautiful cover, parking spaces, and a wide, four-lane road.

"Up there, half a mile," Lily said, "there is major road construction."

Robert glanced at her, smiling dryly. "Is there, now? Let's get the car and have a look, shall we?"

* * *

McCall walked up to the house an hour later. The yard guards, he noted, had been rotated; he could tell he'd been spotted from inside, as well. All was quiet. He'd had a walk around the neighborhood and seen nothing that tweaked his interest. He nodded in satisfaction.

Harley was sprawled on the couch, dozing. "Find anything useful?"

"Oh, yes," McCall answered. "Quite useful indeed. Where's Freda?"

"Upstairs, asleep. Mark's watching him."

Mark, that was the pseudo-teen's name. "Good."

"You lose the girl?"

"She's gone for groceries and supplies," McCall answered. He paused. "Do I want to know? About you and her?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. How do you feel about being a sailor?"

* * *

"Noooooo!" the girl screamed.

Scott sat up, slamming awake again, and grabbed her. Becky was covered with cold sweat, trembled violently in his arms. "Becky, it's okay. Wake up. Becky. Becky!"

She tried to pull away, still shaking, crying, and half sleep. "Noooo!" she screamed again. Then the scream drifted down to a whimper. "No, oh, no. No, no, no."

"Becky. Becky, wake up, honey. I'm right here. You're okay. Come on, wake up."

Finally, Becky turned to him. Her eyes were still wide and confused. "S-s-scott?"

"I'm right here."

"Oh. So frightened, they were so frightened and burning, they were burning. And your dad …"

"My dad?" Scott demanded in alarm. "My dad was in your dream?"

"He was … he was … h-h-h-he had the c-c-cabbages."

Scott shook his head. "You're not making any sense, Becky." She didn't answer. She was still shaking like a leaf. "All right," Scott said soothingly. He drew her closer still, stroked her hair. "It's all right. You're safe now, I'm right here. Go back to sleep."

"No," Becky answered in sudden alarm. "No, I can't go back to sleep. I can't. I'm going to … to …" It was clear she didn't know what she was going to do, but she slid out of his arms and out of bed. "I'm not going back to sleep."

"You have to sleep some time," Scott argued.

"Not tonight," she answered. "I'm not sleeping tonight. You go back to sleep. I'm okay, I'll be fine." She grabbed her robe and went out.

Scott laid back, one hand behind his head, and considered. It took him only a minute to sigh wearily, get out of bed, and follow her.

* * *

By the time Lily returned, Gustav had finished his nap and was playing cards with Harley and Roelen. Mark sprang to his feet the minute the woman appeared. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Lily agreed. "Come haul things."

He followed her out through the kitchen. Robert watched them curiously; she could not possibly be oblivious to the young man's interest. But she wasn't encouraging him – or was she? There was an old adage in the Company, and in every other overseas organization: What happens in the field stays in the field. But surely Lily wasn't going to test out that motto here and now, with Robert in the same house. She wasn't that kind. Was she?

Young Mark was far closer to her age than Control was, and even to Robert's unbiased eye, quite an attractive young man.

He drifted silently past the card players, around into the front room, unobserved, as the two hauled things in from the car. "Leave that out," Lily said. "Most of this goes in the fridge. I'll cook."

"I'm starving," Mark admitted.

"Me, too. Steak, the old man wants. Like that's easy to get around here."

"You got it," he said in surprise. "They're beautiful. I haven't seen a steak like this since … since …"

"It cost a fortune," Lily answered. "Control's going to blow a gasket when he sees this expense report."

"I don't care," Mark said. "It looks delicious."

There was a bit of silent putting away. Robert drifted to the window, feeling a bit guilty for eavesdropping. What in the world was he thinking? He hadn't been appointed her guardian.

"So," Lily said conversationally from the kitchen, "let's have it."

"Have what?"

She clattered the broiler pan. "Your best line. You're obviously working up the nerve to make a pass, so let's just have it."

"Uhhh …" The boy, Robert noted, did not deny her claim.

Maybe she was that kind, after all. Robert frowned out into the twilight, and wished he had not started listening in.

"Wait," Lily said. "Before you start, let me tell you the rules. First off, I rarely sleep with people I work with, and when I do, they're usually the ones who've had a real shower that day, so you're working at a disadvantage to begin with. Two, I've been hit on by the best in the business on both sides of the Iron Curtain, so unless you've got something really original, I'm already bored. And three, if your line has even a reference to the fact that we may not survive to see tomorrow, I will break your pinky fingers. Now. What've you got?"

There was a long pause. The boy finally chuckled. "I got nothing."

Lily laughed gently. "I didn't think so. Here, stir this."

The young man laughed with her. "I'm sorry if I was out of line."

"Not even close," she assured him. "Don't worry about it. Every new field op hits on a courier at least once."

"Why?"

"Because you've been away from home for a long time, and because I bring you Girl Scout cookies and letters from your mom, and because I have the right accent and my clothes smell like New York water instead of Pristina."

Mark cleared his throat. "I don't think I only want to sleep with you because I'm homesick."

"No, but that's a big part of it. If we were back home, in a target-rich environment, you wouldn't be giving me a second glance."

There was a long pause. "Yes, I would."

"For what it's worth," Lily continued conversationally, "nearly every new courier beds down with a field op, at least once. God knows I did, to my eternal regret. Same principal at play. They're the coolest guys we've ever met. There's nothing wrong with it, any of it, as long as you understand the motivation. And don't get distracted. Most men can only think with one head at a time."

"Uhhhh …"

"You know I'm right." The smell of steak began to creep from the kitchen and fill the ground floor.

"Yeah, I guess so," Mark admitted. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to …"

"S'okay, sweetie. Is there a pot holder over there?"

Drawers opened and closed. "Here. God, that smells good."

"How long you been off the Farm?"

"Seven – no, eight months, now. I've been here most of that."

"And?"

"And … it's not really what I expected."

McCall watched his reflection smirk in the window. No, son, it wasn't what I expected, either, and it only gets worse from where you are.

"How so?" Lily asked. Robert realized she was doing it again – drawing all the personal information out of this young man, never telling him a thing about her. As she'd done with Scott. He tried to remember if she'd done it to him. More subtly, certainly, but he was quite sure she had.

"I don't know," Mark sighed. "I mean, they told us in training it was a lot of waiting around, but I never expected _this_ much waiting around. All we do is wait, and watch, and get ready and then not go. It's driving me crazy."

"You are the last line, you know."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you get it. Keep stirring." The oven door creaked open and closed again. "You and Ted's guys, you're the muscle and the gun. If you get any play, it's because the rest of us have screwed up."

"Huh?"

"Force is the last resort," Lily explained. "If we have to use you guys, it means that we're all done talking. It means diplomacy and intelligence and planning have all fallen on their asses, and we're down to 'because we said so and we can make it stick.' So every day that you're not doing anything, it means that all the rest of us are doing our jobs right."

McCall studied his reflection intently. Listen to her, boy, he urged mentally. Take her words to heart.

There was a long pause. "I guess … I guess I can see that."

Lily sighed. "Besides, before much longer the Soviets are going to fold and this place is going to go up like a tinder box. Believe me, you'll see way more action than you ever wanted to see."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it."

"You'd think they'd want peace, after all these years."

"Nope. Once the boot's off their necks, they're going to start killing each other wholesale."

Which was, Robert reflected, probably far truer than he wanted to believe.

"This look done to you?" Lily went on.

"Pretty pink," the boy answered.

"Yeah. Let's eat."

* * *

Lily went out again around midnight; an hour later, the men in the yard signaled her return. McCall gave up trying to sleep and carried his radio down to the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, bending a new passport cover back and forth. "Things okay?" she asked at once.

"Fine," Robert assured her. "All tucked in for the night." Not precisely true; besides the two men in the yard, he had one pacing upstairs and Harley sleeping on the couch in the living room. "Did you get everything I asked for?"

"Naturally."

"Naturally." He followed her nod to where a garment bag hung on the back of the door and unzipped it. "Very nice," he said, examining the uniform. "Very nice indeed."

"Uh-huh," Lily agreed, still working the passport. "Anybody can get them to give up the shirt of their back. Getting the whole uniform takes a special talent." She opened the folder, tossed it on the floor, and rubbed it fiercely with her toes. Then she picked it up, brushed it off, and examined the results.

Robert re-zipped the bag. "You got shoes?"

"Over there," she said. "And socks, too."

"Good." He sat down at the table. "Here," he said, taking the passport, "let me."

She brought a second folder out of her pocket. "This is for the baby. I didn't figure it needed much aging."

"No, just bend it a little." He took the daughter's passport, dog-eared one page and straightened it. Folded a crease in the back cover and smoothed it out. Ground dirt and fingerprints on the front page. It would still need a picture; Lily would have obtained an instant camera for them. "And the vehicles?"

"Shelby and his crew have it covered. And they're watching the watchers on the girl's house. They'll let us know if there's any change."

"He's reliable? Shelby?"

Lily shrugged. "He's sleeping with his second, but other than that he seems stable."

Robert chuckled dryly. "What would the boss say if he knew?"

"He does know."

"I, hmm, overheard your conversation with young Mark earlier."

"Yes, I know. That's why I didn't just take him upstairs and tumble him."

Robert glanced at her. "I suppose I deserved that." He stood and took the document to the coffee pot, dipped his finger in the wet grounds, and delicately stained the edges of three pages.

Lily shrugged. "He makes me uneasy." She smoothed out the baby's passport and set it down.

"I thought you handled his attraction very well."

She waved it off. "Not that. That happens all the time. It's just that - well, I'm sure the baby face isn't helping, but when the hell did they all get so young?"

Robert glanced at her, bemused. "Ah, and you're the grand old lady now, are you? Are you even thirty yet?"

"Almost."

"Almost." He shook his head. "It's not years that count any more, Lily. Not for you. They all got to be much, much younger than you last fall."

"Or I got to be much, much older than them."

"Yes. The saying goes, 'A man has got to know his limitations.' You have the unique knowledge, now, of exactly where your limits are. To here, you can endure. Past here, you would sooner be dead. It is not a wisdom most people possess, and it is not wisdom I would have wished for you. But as you now have it, it is a tremendous advantage."

She did not answer, but she watched his work intently. When he was satisfied with the document, he tossed it down. Lily picked it up and leafed through it. Robert bristled at the notion that she was checking his work. "The coffee's a nice touch," she said. "I'll have to remember that one."

McCall grunted. She wasn't checking his work, she was studying it.

"Is that what I looked like to you, the first time we met?" she asked. "Like Mark?"

"Yes," he told her honestly.

"That explains so much."

The radio crackled to life again. "In back, one man on foot."

From upstairs, "I've got him."

Robert snatched up the radio. "That's likely Kostmayer," he barked. "Don't shoot him just yet."

There was a pause. "I got light signal. Two, two, three."

McCall glanced at the girl, who nodded. "Signal back, and let him in."

"Will do. Coming up now."

Robert drew his gun before he opened the back door, but it was indeed Kostmayer, looking calm and tired. "Mickey," he said warmly, "thank you for coming."

Mickey glanced pointedly at the gun as McCall tucked it away. "Wouldn't miss it. Not that Control gave me a whole lot of choice in the matter. Hey, Lil."

"Hi, hon. You hungry?"

"Starving."

Lily got up and set about warming him some leftovers. Robert issued a final clear to the men outside, then sat down at the table and quickly, precisely outlined the mission for his friend. He included in his explanation an exact description of the cabbages.

Kostmayer whistled softly. Lily put a plate in front of him, and for one heartbeat he looked as if he had no appetite. Then he shrugged it off and fell to eating. "It could get ugly," he said, pausing after the first few bites. "If the daughter balks …"

"We're putting Harley in a Navy uniform," Lily supplied, bringing him a glass of milk "How can she resist?"

"And the baby's two? That's the worst possible age."

"I know," Robert agreed. "And believe me, I am prepared to abandon this entire plan if it shows the first sign of unraveling. But I know Gustav. He will dig his heels in if we don't play it this way."

"We can get the information out of him," Mickey said mildly.

"I know we can, but I'd rather not take that path if I can avoid it."

Kostmayer shrugged. "It's your show."

"Yes. You will take Lily for a walk in the park tomorrow morning. She'll show you the lay-out and the second safe house."

"Okay." He looked at the woman. "You have weapons for me, of course."

"Of course. One standard, one from the full auto family. What was the phrase again? Spray and pray?"

"You always know what I want."

"Yes, I do."


	14. Chapter 14

Harley Gage shrugged into the uniform jacket and buttoned it, scowling. "You couldn't have made me a captain or something?"

"Not in my wildest imagination," Lily answered, amused. "Nice fit, though."

"Not bad." He looked to McCall. "Robert, you do realize the risk here. If I'm caught in this uniform …"

"Oh, they'll shoot you anyhow, so don't worry about it."

"Not the sort of encouragement I was looking for. Seriously, you're assuming I can sweet-talk my way into this woman's home. If this doesn't work …"

"It'll work," Lily assured him. "Take my word for it, if she's got a pulse, she'll let you in."

Gage looked her up and down. "Sorry, sweetie, did I trip your uniform trigger?"

She dimpled prettily. "You did, actually. But I'll be all right in a minute or two." She fanned her face with her hand.

"McCall, promise me you won't leave me alone with her."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Robert answered.

"Where's the letter?"

"I'll get it," McCall said, starting out.

"But, McCall, you promised …"

Robert chuckled. "Mickey," he called into the kitchen, "Harley thinks he needs some back-up in the living room."

He left, but Mickey came in, with an enormous sandwich in one hand. "Problem?"

Harley sat down to put his shoes on. "Just keep an eye on her. The uniform's got her all wound up."

"You tellin' me you can't handle one little girl on your own, Harley? Oh, wait, I remember now. Any little girl but this one."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Gage scowled. "It was a dud."

"Yeah," Mickey chortled, "that's what I hear. All the time."

"Help like this I need," Harley groused. He stood up and straightened the uniform again, ran his fingers back through his hair. "When I need to go in there and sweep this woman off her feet, you two got to give me grief."

"You'll be fine, Harley," Mickey answered, trying to stop grinning. "Lily's right, there's something about the uniform …" That was as far as he got before he started to laugh again.

"Besides, she's got a toddler in the house," Lily reasoned. "That will severely limit the amount of sweeping you're able to do."

"Kids nap." Gage shook his hair loose again. "I'm prepared to do whatever it takes to convince this woman that we're the good guys."

"Uh-huh," Lily said, "and you'll make it seem like such a great sacrifice."

"Well, if you were a real agent instead of an over-paid go-fer, you'd understand that sometimes you have to take one for the team."

Harley chuckled at his own joke. He thought he heard a rustle under the chuckle, and he was quite certain he heard the metallic click. He turned a quarter to his right, and looked right down the barrel of Mickey Kostmayer's gun. Nobody was laughing any more.

"Uhhh … Mickey?" Gage said quietly, his hands instinctively coming up and away from his body. "It was just a little joke."

"It wasn't funny."

"Look, whatever you two have going on, don't you think you're overreacting just a little bit?"

"No."

He turned his head back, very slowly, to look at the girl. She had absolutely no expression on her face. "Uh, Lily, you want to help me out here?"

"Not really, no." She stared at him for a minute, then shrugged. "Mickey, he has no idea why you're about to shoot him."

"I don't care."

"Yeah, but McCall'll be pissed if we get blood all over that uniform."

Harley turned, still slowly, back to Kostmayer. "Whatever I said, I'm really sorry. I was just kidding around."

The gun never wavered. "Don't you _ever_ imply that she's not a real agent again."

"I won't," Harley promised with heart-felt sincerity. "I swear, I won't."

"And the other part," Lily prompted.

"And don't ever use that phrase again," Kostmayer continued coldly.

"Which, the taking one for …"

"That one."

"Done. I promise. Not even joking. I swear."

The gun came down and disappeared under Kostmayer's jacket. "Good." Mickey took another bite of his sandwich.

Gage relaxed, his hands slowly lowering. "Okay, then. What the hell was that about? What'd I miss?"

Lily shook her head, not to him but to Mickey. "The very last thing I need in my life," she said, "is pity from Harley Gage."

"Hey, hey …"

McCall came back, carrying a white envelope. He looked around at the three of them, all silent, all tense. "What is it? What's wrong?"

There was a long silence. "Nothing," Kostmayer finally said, deadly quiet.

"Harley?"

Gage straightened up. "No, it's fine. The shoes pinch a little, that's all. It's okay. I can live with it." He took the letter and tucked it inside his jacket. "We ready to go?"

* * *

Harley knocked on the front door and waited, feeling the eyes of the agents behind him burning holes through his back. The officials, Soviet or Yugoslavian, hadn't made any attempt to conceal their surveillance of the house. They were parked right across the street from her front door. As he'd walked up the street, the awake one had nudged his partner; now they were both staring at him.

He knocked again. Shelby's people had assured him she was home. "McCall," Harley said quietly to his wire, "I don't think she's going to open the door."

Then there were footsteps, and the door opened. The woman inside was perhaps twenty-five, not plump but certainly curved, her dark hair up in a neat bun, her eyes wide and curious. "Yes?"

Gage moved. He swept the woman up in his arms and kissed her soundly, then pushed back into the house with her feet still dangling and kicked the door shut. He set her down, but kept one hand over her mouth. She struggled ferociously, broke free. "How dare you!" she shrieked.

"Elena, Elena, please, I know you're angry with me, you have every right to be. I should have written, I should have come back sooner, I know, I know, I am so sorry …"

As he spoke, he drew out her father's letter and also a neatly printed note card. The card read, "Your father sent me. I am here to help you and your daughter defect to the West. Your house is bugged and we are being watched. Please play along or they will shoot me."

She read the note while he rambled through his apology. Her eyes came up to his, quickly assessing him, assessing the situation. Then she nodded, and slapped him. "You miserable bastard!" she shrieked. "You come back here now, after three years, and you think you can just bust in and make yourself at home! You get out! I don't want you here. Just go."

"Elena, my darling, Elena, listen to me. I couldn't come back sooner because we were at sea. I wanted to write to you, I swear I did, but they wouldn't let us because our mission was secret. Please, my darling, listen to me. You know I love you. You know I would never abandon you."

"Secret mission," she spat, but with less venom. "I am to believe you were on a secret mission. Is that the excuse you give to all your women? Is it?"

"There are no other women, Elena. How can you think that? You wound me with these accusations. I came back to you as soon as I was able, as soon as they let me off the ship."

"And I should just take your word for this?"

"Well," Harley said, in his best beguiling way, "I asked the captain to write me a note, but he wouldn't do it. Confidentially, I think he has women troubles of his own."

"You are a liar," Elena answered, but now it was with resignation instead of heat.

"I hear we have a daughter."

"Maria. She is two years old now."

"May I see her?"

"She's asleep." The woman took the letter carefully from his fingers. "You may look in on her, but don't wake her. I'll just go make myself presentable."

* * *

McCall sighed as silence fell onto the wire. "Well, so far, so good."

"He really is remarkably good at that," Lily commented.

"He gets a lot of practice," Kostmayer answered dryly.

The three of them were huddled in the back of the gray panel van over a rather scratchy receiver. Roelen, who had been driving, was outside, keeping watch.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Robert said, as the silence inside the house grew, "but what is it between you two?"

Lily shrugged innocently. "What do you think it is?"

"Ah, not you, too."

"I was young."

"You were never that young." McCall shook his head. "So it ended badly, did it? That doesn't explain why he's afraid of you."

Kostmayer burst out laughing. "She left him with a present."

The girl looked chagrined. "I, uh, left a grenade in his bed."

"No," Mickey corrected, "you left a grenade affixed to a strategic portion of his anatomy."

"I wasn't going to be quite that blunt, thank you."

McCall stared at her. "A grenade?"

"It was a dud."

"The grenade was?"

"Yes. I did sorta scrape off all the safety stripes, though."

"Good Lord."

"And you keep thinking I'm such a sweet innocent little thing, don't you?"

"You may consider that opinion amended." He thought about it for a moment, had to shake his head in agreement. "If there was ever a man who needed that sort of wake-up call, though …"

"What we're dying to know," Mickey said, still chuckling, "is what the hell you put in Jason's coffee."

Lily laughed. "Me?"

"You. We know you brought him the coffee, and we know he's been scarce around the office ever since. So give. What was it?"

"Heavy cream, three sugars, just the way he likes it. Because God forbid he should drink coffee like a grown-up."

"And what else?"

"You're implying that I would intentionally poison a superior?"

"Yeah. And we think you jumped the line. C'mon, I won't tell anybody."

Lily considered for a minute, glanced at Robert. He shrugged. "I'm not even here."

"Methylene blue."

"What's that?"

"It's a medical dye," Robert told him. He looked at the girl, puzzled. "You turned his urine blue? That's it?"

"That's it," she confirmed. "No permanent harm, no other symptoms at all."

"I don't get it," Mickey said. "You went from hand grenades to making Jason piss blue?"

"Well, yes," Lily said. "Of course, this week Vince will be insuring that he pisses orange, and next week Remster will be in charge of fluorescent green. Then we have a few more weeks lined up, but we figure by then he'll run screaming to Doc Tillman."

Kostmayer shrugged. "And Tillman will run a tox screen and you'll all end up in prison. So what?"

"Tillman will run a tox screen and find nothing," Lily answered serenely. "So he will run more tests, and more tests, and more tests. About six months' worth, all of them inconvenient, embarrassing, and/or painful. And in the end he will find exactly nothing."

"Ahhh," Robert said. "But you can't be sure he'll go to Tillman."

"Tillman's the best the Company has. Jason will go to him."

"Elegant," Mickey agreed. "I like it. But how'd you talk Tillman into it?"

McCall straightened. "No. That was the wrong question. How did Tillman talk _you_ into it?"

Lily smiled sweetly. "All he had to do was ask."

"What's he got against Jason?"

"Well, apparently I wasn't the only broken little soul to come out of Central America last year. Doug understands the risks of the business, but he has an issue with callous disregard."

"You must never, never tell Control," Robert supplied.

"No. His plausible deniability will be stringently maintained. But I'm sure he'll find out about it anyhow."

"Does he know about Harley?"

"Um … maybe. I'm not going to bring it up. At least not until he mentions the Russian ballerina."

Robert smiled, startled. "How did you find out about that? That happened … it must have been before you were born."

"Actually," Lily answered, "I'd only heard rumors about it, and no one would confirm them. Until now."

Kostmayer grinned and looked the other way. Robert huffed, shook his head. "The two of you think you're very clever, don't you?"

"We are very clever," Mickey answered.

* * *

"Your daughter is very beautiful," Harley said over the wire. The van fell silent again.

"Our daughter," Elena corrected. She'd changed into slacks, let her hair down and combed it. She had the letter in her hand. She looked him squarely in the eye. "I'm still not sure I should have let you in here."

"I'll leave again, if that's what you want."

"No," she said uncertainly. "I just … I don't know what to talk to you about."

"Tell me about our daughter," Harley encouraged. He took out his note card again, turned it over, and wrote on the back. "Maybe when she wakes up we can take a walk in the park. It's a beautiful morning."

He showed her the card: 'Tell me about your father escaping from prison.'

"I've had such an upsetting week," she said immediately. "My father … he escaped from prison this week."

"You're joking. Where did he go?"

"I don't know," Elena answered honestly. "The police were here, they thought he'd come here, but I told them he wouldn't dare. He and I … well, you know how things are between us. He wouldn't come here. I'd turn him in in a minute."

"That car across the street – they're watching the house."

"Yes. I know I should be upset, but the truth is, it makes me feel better. At least I know he can't get close to me or Maria."

"Well, I'm here now, I'll make sure you're safe."

She looked him in the eye again. "I think you will," she said slowly. She reached for the pen and the card and wrote, 'how much can I take along?'

Harley considered. "Why don't we, hmm, why don't we pack a picnic lunch to take to the park? And a diaper bag. We'll make a day of it. It's supposed to rain tomorrow and we'll be trapped inside."

"I … I …" She looked around the house helplessly. She didn't know where to begin. To leave everything behind, everything that would not fit in a picnic basket, on no notice. "All right. I'll gather up a few things." She moved away, then looked back. "It was awfully good of you to come."

* * *

McCall keyed the radio. "She's in," he announced to the team. "We go as soon as nap time is over."

The toddler, Maria, woke up, took one look at Harley, and started screaming. "She's terrible with strangers," Elena apologized over the din.

"I'm not a stranger. I'm her father."

"But she's never seen you before. Here, let me get her changed and we'll go out. She'll quiet down then. Go, go out there, where she can't see you."

* * *

"This ought to be delightful," Kostmayer said dryly. Even after Harley had apparently left the room, they could hear the baby screaming in the distance. "This kid gonna scream all the way to New York?"

"Very possibly," Lily answered. "They have great endurance at that age."

"You know about little children?" Robert asked with interest.

"I grew up in a group home next to a day care. I know my way around toddlers. Rule one: If you're negotiating with a two year old, you've already lost."

"I wish I'd known that when Scott was small," McCall answered with a sigh. "I'm going. Get to your next position. Stay sharp." He checked his pockets and his gun, climbed out of the van. "Roelen? Down the hill, please." As the tall agent moved, Robert walked slowly down the road. Behind him, Mickey drove the van away.

* * *

Elena was right; once they had the child in the stroller and out to the sidewalk, she stopped screaming – as long as Harley didn't make eye contact with her. He was content enough to trudge behind them, hauling the diaper bag and the picnic basket and letting Elena push the baby. "You think you got enough stuff?" he asked, very quietly, as the handle of the basket creaked ominously.

"Tell me when I can come back for the rest," she answered tartly.

They went north up the street towards the park. Before they'd passed three houses, the two men got out of the car and trailed them, badly.

"Now what?" Elena asked nervously.

"We're fine," Harley assured her. "Just be casual. Keep walking. A little stroll in the park with your baby, nothing more. It's all right."

"Can we … can we talk now?"

"Quietly."

"What's you're name? Your real name?"

"Harley Gage."

"You're American?"

"Yes."

"A spy?"

"N – no. Not any more. It doesn't matter. We're going to get you and your daughter out of here."

"To where?"

"To London, first, and then to the United States."

"There is a store in London," Elena said wistfully. "Harrods. Have you ever been there?"

"Yes."

"Can I go there?"

Harley grinned. "Of course you can. I'll take you there myself."

They entered the park, started casually down the footpath. The baby cooed with delight. "Tree, Mama!"

"Yes, Maria."

"Swing."

"Not right now."

"Swing, Mama!"

"Later, Maria …"

The toddler's scream went off like a fire alarm. "Swiiiiiinnnnngggggg!"

"Uh … I think she wants to swing," Harley said nervously.

"We have no time …"

"Let her swing. If it'll make her stop doing that, just let her."

They went to the swing set and put the girl in a baby swing. The screaming subsided instantly as Elena pushed her. "Swing!" Maria sang happily.

* * *

There was a moment of silence over the team's radios, and then Mickey's voice. "I'd say something about Harley finally meeting a real swinger, but it'd be way too easy."

On the roadway above the pedestrian tunnel, McCall smiled humorlessly. "Be ready," he said, ducking his head towards his lapel. "Play time is nearly over. Everyone report in."

The team called in, quietly, orderly. Everyone was where he'd told them to be. Everything was set. Robert nodded to himself. He touched the outside of his jacket, felt the reassuring weight within. He leaned his elbows on the railing and watched the park below. The two officials had stopped about twenty yards beyond Harley and his companions and stood waiting, uncomfortable and obvious. They were not field agents. Even better. They did, however, have radios, and no doubt they had as much back-up circling the park as Robert did.

Well, he thought, with grim delight, let's just see who has the better plan, shall we? He wanted to deny it, but it felt damn good to be running an op again.

* * *

The child finally grew tired of the swing and let herself be helped down. She refused, loudly and adamantly, to get back in the stroller. "Never mind," Harley said. "Let's just take a little walk. Would you like to see some ducks?" he asked the child. "I saw some ducks on the other side of that tunnel over there."

The toddler eyed him warily. "Ducks?"

"Yes. Big ducks and baby ducks. Come on, I'll show you."

He held his hand out to her. She hid behind her mother's legs.

"Come on, Maria," Elena said encouragingly. "You can hold my hand."

She held the toddler with one hand, pushed the stroller awkwardly with the other. Harley trudged after them again with the obscenely heavy picnic basket and the diaper bag. "Through the tunnel," he said quietly. "Once we're through, you'll see two black cars. I want you to pick up Maria and get in the back seat of the car on the right. Then slide over so I can put this stuff in. If anyone chases us, run for it and don't look back. Get to the car on your right. Understand?"

"What about the stroller?"

"Leave it. I'll get you a new one at Harrods."

They walked on, at the toddler's pace. "Is my father in the car? Is he waiting for us?"

"No. You won't see him until we get to London. But we can let you talk to him, if you want, for a minute."

There was a pause. "Don't bother. I don't have anything to say to him."

"Uh … okay."

They reached the tunnel, finally. Maria balked at going in; Elena parked the strolled and picked her up. Behind them, their watchers closed to fifteen feet. "Just walk," Harley said quietly. "Just walk and be ready."

The little ad hoc family passed directly under Robert McCall. He watched, apparently casually. His arms were folded, his hands lost in the fabric of his dark jacket. The men following them seemed confused, uncertain what to do next. They paused outside the tunnel, practically at Robert's feet, and conferred. It dawned on them, perhaps, that there was no pond, no river, no ducks on the far side of the tunnel. They reached under their coats and started to pursue.

"Run," Robert said calmly into his lapel. He unfolded his arms, opened his hands, and dropped the two armed concussion grenades directly in front of the men.

The explosion was bright, loud, and impressive, much more show than damage, but it stopped the two pursuers in their tracks. McCall stood long enough to be sure they were fixed in place. Then he sprinted across the street and down the far embankment to the waiting cars.

"Now, Mickey," he said, still calmly. A blast of white noise filled his radio – and every other radio in the perimeter of the park. It jammed his own team's communications as well as the Soviets', but McCall was ready for that. For these few minutes, his people had expected radio silence.

He watched as Gage stuffed the woman, child, and gear into the battered sedan and got in the front seat. Roelen pulled the car out of the parking space even before Harley had the door shut. "Easy, easy," Robert urged under his breath. As he'd planned, Roelen dropped to a respectable city-traffic speed as soon as they were on the street.

Nodding in satisfaction, McCall made his way to the other car. It was concealed behind the trees, and largely identical to the first sedan – the ubiquitous black four-door, old, battered – but this was the one Lily had modified for him. Shelby waited in the passenger seat, and his crewmate, Sam Jones, sat in the back, holding an over-sized baby doll. Robert got into the driver's seat. "Everyone buckled up?" he asked cheerfully. He started the car; the engine growled reassuringly. He backed it out of the hiding spot and waited.

There was a long, long ten count. The white noise on the radios faded to static. "There!" Shelby called, spotting the car turning down towards them.

"Yes, good," Robert answered, and hit the gas.

* * *

"There's construction on this road," Elena said suddenly.

"We know," Harley answered. "We planned on it."

"I thought … I thought it was just you."

"Oh, no, ma'am," Roelen answered. "There're a whole bunch of us looking out for you today."

"But … why? Why am I so important?"

The agents glanced at each other. "You're important to your father," Harley finally said. "So you're important to us."

"Bah!" the woman practically spat. "He never gave two thoughts for me!"

"Hold on," Roelen advised. He turned a sharp right corner at the construction site. Behind him, two unusually clean-cut construction worked moved a roadblock into place, closing off the street he'd just entered. Two more corners, and a garage stood open. He pulled the car in and parked it next to a closed gray van. "There," he said, "go."

Kostmayer opened the side door of the van, came to the car, and opened the door for Elena. "Hi there," he said simply. "Come on."

"But …"

"I'm coming, too," Harley promised. He got out, got her gear out of the back seat, and followed her and the child into the van, where Lily waited for them. Roelen let Mickey re-take the wheel, content to ride, literally, shotgun.

"Hi," Lily said and they moved back into traffic, headed away from the construction zone. "I'm Lily, and I'll be your travel agent."

"I don't understand."

"That's okay. I'll explain as we go. First thing, let's get all your things out of the picnic basket and into these suitcases. Leave the diaper bag together, but take out whatever's extra and pack it in here, in case it's searched."

Elena looked to Harley for confirmation. He nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead. That basket's going to fall apart in a minute anyhow."

Maria scrambled off her lap to the floor, curious about the van and its equipment. As they rounded a corner, the child stumbled and Lily snatched her into her arms. "Hey, pretty baby."

The child turned and studied her seriously, but at least didn't scream.

Elena quickly finished the hasty transfer. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"North," Harley said, "to Belgrade. Then we'll take the train to Zagreb, and then north and west to Vienna."

"But they'll be looking for us."

Lily opened a canvas bag. "I have a new coat for you," she said, bringing out a tan trench coat. "And a wig. You're going to be blond for a day or two. Trust me, you'll love it."

"And that will convince them?"

"Probably." She reached around the toddler to help Elena with the wig. "Mickey, we need a stoplight for photos, please."

"I'll let you know," he called back. "Kinda busy right now."

Kostmayer was watching closely, intently, but he didn't see any sign of a tail. He nodded in grim satisfaction. McCall would have drawn them off; he and his passengers were probably in the clear.

He drove very carefully, for once obeying every traffic law to the letter.

* * *

McCall sped away from the pursuers, then had to slow enough to keep them in sight. He didn't want to lose them, not yet. In another ten blocks, there was a second car behind him. McCall nodded. Their radios would have cleared, and they were all convinced he had the woman and child with him. He turned onto the highway, and put his foot to the floor.

It took them fifteen miles to organize a roadblock ahead of him. His eyes narrowed as he considered running it, but that wasn't part of the plan. He'd stalled them long enough for the real trail to grow cold. "Here we go," he said, and stopped the car.

The group that had stopped them was half comprised of local police, half of Soviet officials. The Soviets were a good deal more forceful the locals. They dragged Sam Jones out of the back seat and ripped the doll away from her. "What is this?" the Soviet screamed at her. "Where is the child?"

She looked at him curiously, all blinking American. "She's at home, in Indiana," she answered innocently. "I just loved this doll, though. It looks so much like her, I had to take it home to her. How did you know I had a daughter?"

"This isn't the woman we're looking for," the senior official sneered. He turned to where McCall was pinned against the outside of the driver's door. "You. Why were you trying to outrun us?"

"I wasn't," Robert protested innocently. "I just thought, if you were allowed to go that fast on the highway, that was the local limit. I have a terrible time with the metric conversion in my head."

The Soviet looked him up and down critically. "I ought to have you all thrown in jail."

"If I was speeding, I'm terribly sorry …"

"You interfered with an official police matter."

"Oh. Oh, I am very sorry about that. Please, sir …"

The locals were, very subtly, amused.

"Let them go," the man in charge snapped. "Find Freda's daughter." He stomped back to his car and was gone.

As the roadblock disbursed, McCall and his party got back into their car. "They messed up the doll's hair," Jones complained.

Robert glanced in the mirror at her. "Well, some sacrifices must be made. On to Belgrade, shall we?"

* * *

Mickey kept an eye on the road behind them, but there was no tail. They were definitely clean. He relaxed half a notch – no more – lifted his face so that he could see the passengers. Harley and the woman were shoulder to shoulder on one bench, chatting very softly. Mickey shook his head. It wasn't any wonder Gage couldn't keep a job.

On the other side, Lily sat with the baby contentedly on her lap. They were playing some sort of game that involved tickling and surprised faces, and rather a lot of giggling from both of them. The child hated Harley, but was perfectly at ease with Lily. Smart baby, Mickey mused. Smarter than her mother, anyhow. He glanced at the road, then at Lily again. She seemed happy, genuinely animated for once. He hadn't realized she liked kids so much.

His eyes narrowed as he considered. Counted. Damn it. But maybe she didn't realize.

He shook his head, let it go. Checked the road behind them again, and drove.

* * *

They met in another empty garage just south of the train station. McCall was there first; he'd passed them forty minutes out and had been scouting, making sure he wasn't trailed. As soon as Mickey drove in, he shut the garage door.

Mickey opened the van door, and Harley and Elena got out. Lily stayed where she was; the child was nestled against her chest, fast asleep.

"What's the word?" Mickey asked.

Robert shook his head. "Not good. Morris reports that they have surveillance on this train station as well." He'd hoped to avoid that by driving this far. "They have pictures of Elena everywhere."

"But I look different," she protested.

"Not different enough, I'm afraid. They'll look closely at anyone with a child that age."

"So we go to Plan B," Harley said. "We split up."

"I am not leaving my child!" Elena protested quickly.

"No, no," Robert assured her. "No one is asking you to leave your child. We're just going to have you travel separately."

"No."

"Elena, listen to what we have in mind," Harley said soothingly. "You and I will get on the train. Maria will get on the same train, in a different car, with one of our people. Once we cross the border, we can all sit together. It's just until the border. She'll only be one car away. I promise."

The young woman looked at him beseechingly – and visibly decided to trust him. She turned to Lily. "You'll bring the child?"

"Me?" Lily asked, startled. "Uh, no, I'm just …"

"Yes," Robert overrode her. "Lily will bring the child on the train."

"Uh …"

"Just to Vienna. Then you can track back to us."

Lily looked at him for a long moment. It was as close as she'd come, the whole mission, to arguing with him. "If you need anything while I'm gone, talk to Morris again. He's almost as good as I am."

Robert nodded in satisfaction. "The child likes you, Lily. The less screaming from her, the better."

"Yeah, I got that part."

"I'll go with them," Kostmayer announced.

McCall looked at him, surprised. It hadn't been part of the plan, but then neither had Lily. It also made a certain amount of sense. Lily was very good, but she was not a covert op, and he was literally filling her hands with the child. If things went badly – Robert didn't expect that, now, but it could happen – she'd need a free gun at her side. There was something else, too, something that Mickey couldn't or wouldn't say. He didn't know what it was, but he trusted Kostmayer's instincts. He nodded. "All right. But get back to me as soon as you can."

"You got it."

They shuffled luggage and papers. It took a bit of cobbling, to get Lily's picture and Elena's swapped on their passports, and of course then the physical descriptions were wrong, but that wasn't at all uncommon in this part of the world. "Twenty minutes," Mickey announced. "We should go."

Robert nodded. He looked them all over once more, trying to think of anything he'd missed. This was the worst part of any mission, he remembered; he'd gotten them this far, but beyond here he could not help them. He trusted them, Mickey, Lily, Harley, would have trusted them with his life. But it was hard to send them out into the world alone. "Right then," he finally sighed. "Let's be on our way."

They split up and drove on to the train station.


	15. Chapter 15

The agent at the gate had barely looked at Elena as she boarded the train. Harley kept his arm close around her, and she rather ducked into his side; the agent just smirked at them, glanced at their paper, and let them go.

"There," Harley said reassuringly. "That was easy, wasn't it?"

Elena looked over her shoulder. "But what about the baby?"

"They'll be fine," Harley promised. He herded her onto the train and found her a seat by the window. "There, you can watch the gate from here."

She took his hand as he sat down, but never took her eyes from the window. "What if they don't make it? What if they're caught?"

"They won't get caught. Mickey is the best in the business – practically – and Lily could smuggle snowballs into hell. Besides, they don't even have a picture of the baby. Maria's just another child to them. They won't look twice at her."

"We should wait on the platform," she argued. "In case they don't make it." Her hand squeezed his painfully, though she was completely unaware of it.

"Elena. Elena! Look at me." Harley's voice was loud enough to draw her attention from the window. "First, you're crushing my hand."

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize …"

She tried to take her hand back entirely. Harley kept her fingers in his, but lightly. "It's all right. I know you're worried. But look at me. Elena, look at me. Your baby is perfectly safe. If she were my daughter, I would trust her to those two. Everything is fine."

Her hand tightened again as she looked into his eyes. "Why … why are you doing this for me?"

Harley's mouth went dry. He knew that look. He also knew all about transference, he knew that they were being watched, and he knew that McCall would kill him. But she had the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. "It's my job," he mumbled. And then, saved by grace, "Look, there."

She spun around and watched as Lily, Mickey, and Maria passed the gate agent with barely a pause. They walked towards the next car and disappeared from view.

"See?" Harley said, "I told you. No problem at all. Now just sit back and relax. All we've got left is the border, and then we're home free."

Elena nodded, smiling. She sat back, turned away from the window – but kept holding his hand.

* * *

"I don't have a lot of time, Scott," Control said without preamble. "What is it you want?"

The young man spun around in the center of the empty warehouse, badly startled by Control's silent arrival. "What is this place?" he asked.

"It's a warehouse. What do you want?"

"Where's my dad?"

Control shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"He should have been back two days ago."

"He's been delayed."

"Is he in danger?" Scott demanded.

"No more so than usual. You know you can't ask me these things, Scott. You know I can't answer you. Why did you call me?"

The boy hesitated. "Becky's been having nightmares."

"About your father?"

"Yes. And about cabbages. Red cabbages. She's been having them for weeks, ever since you saw her at the restaurant. You know what it means, don't you?"

"Scott …"

"Tell me what it means! And tell me where my father is!" The young man closed on him. He was many inches taller, probably fifty pounds heavier – but he stopped coming forward at Control's warning look. "Please," he said, desperate. "She's sat up the last two nights. She's afraid to sleep. I have to know what's going on."

Control nodded slowly, put his hand on Scott's shoulder. "All right, son. All right. I'll tell you what I can. But it stays between us, and Becky. Understand?"

"Yes," Scott breathed. He couldn't believe he'd gotten even this much.

"The red cabbages are nuclear warheads."

"Nukes." The young man went pale and still.

"Yes."

"My father has them?"

"He has the man who knows where they are. They are getting him and his family out of the Communist bloc. He has some very good people with him, including Kostmarer. We're watching the situation very closely. That's all I can tell you, Scott." He paused. "What else does Becky say?"

Scott shrugged. "Only that she sees them, that they're so hot and everyone around them is burning. And there's a lot of fear. A lot of fear."

Control shook his head. "I'm sorry, Scott." He squeezed the boy's shoulder and released it. "Tell Becky I'm sorry. I had no idea, when I got her involved in this. I'll let you know as soon as it's resolved. But that's all I can do right now."

"Okay." Scott was still shaken. He looked at the older man, about to ask something else – and then thought better of it. The mystery woman, the one Control was in love with, would have to wait for another time. "Thank you."

"Call me if it gets worse. Or if she sees anything else."

"I will."

Control walked away, leaving his friend's son bewildered and frightened in the empty warehouse.

* * *

Roelen came back to the van. "All aboard," he reported.

McCall nodded. "Shelby's people, too? Good. Very good." He'd sent two of Shelby's team to keep an eye on Elena. The baby, he assumed, was of no interest to the authorities, and in any case he trusted her two guardians completely. "Let's get back and see how things are going with Gustav, shall we?"

The tall blond folded himself into the passenger seat and they were off.

* * *

"I want to go check on them."

Harley stirred; he'd been half asleep. "That's not a good idea. I'm sure they're fine."

"I'll just walk past. I won't say anything."

"Yes, but Maria will, if she sees you."

"I have to see her. I have to be sure she's on the train. Harley, please. She's my baby."

Gage sighed. It was a profoundly bad idea, but so was letting Elena become hysterical. "Tell you what. You stay here and I'll go see what they're doing. If the baby's asleep, you can walk back real quick. Okay? But if she's not, you have to wait. You know what will happen if she sees you."

"Why can't she sit with me, anyhow?"

"Once we clear the border she can." Harley stood up, caught the back of his seat for balance. "Stay here."

He glanced across the aisle and back two seats, to where one of Shelby's men was sitting. He gave him a brief nod, then made his way to the back of the car, crossed over, and entered the other car.

The minute the door shut, the baby's squeal hit him. He could see them, all the way in the back of the car. The girl wasn't screaming, for a change; she was laughing. They had snagged two facing seats, and the child was sitting on Lily's lap, giggling at Kostmayer, who was sitting opposite them, playing peek with her. Harley shook his head and made his way back past them to the head. When he came out, Mickey was standing by the door, apparently waiting in line.

"Everything okay?" Mickey muttered.

"Mama's worried."

"Keep her out of here. We're fine."

"You got it."

Harley went back to his car and sat down. "The baby's fine," he said softly. She's playing peek-a-boo with Kostmayer. But she's wide awake."

"I want to see her."

"Not right now. Later, if she falls asleep."

"I think you're lying to me. I think she's not on the train." Elena's voice edged upwards again.

"Elena. Elena, look at me." She turned away, so Harley caught her face gently with his hand and turned her. "Elena, I would never lie to you. Your daughter is fine. You've trusted me this far. Trust me now. Everything is fine."

Her eyes wavered between fear and trust. "I barely know you," she whispered. "This morning was just another day, and now my father's out of prison and you're here and I'm running for my life, and my daughter is … I didn't expect any of this. I wasn't … I wasn't ready for this."

"I know," Harley answered sincerely. "I know. You're doing wonderfully. Just keep it together for a few more hours. I promise you, everything will be fine. In a day or two, we'll be shopping at Harrods. You'll see."

"But … but …"

A single tear trickled down her frightened face. Harley drew her closer and caught it with his lips, then moved to kiss her mouth, gently, tenderly. Her hands came up, not to push him away but to draw him closer.

Gage closed his eyes and let the kiss deepen. McCall was definitely going to kill him, but at least, he reasoned, he was keeping her calm. Or at least distracted.

* * *

McCall drove the van around the block, checking the exterior of the new safe house. Roelen's team had moved the old man while the authorities were busy chasing Robert around the city. He didn't like this house as well; the clearance was too tight, the approaches a little too easy. Six for ten, Lily had rated it, and he agreed with that assessment. But they couldn't sit in one place, nor rely too heavily on the hospitality of their allies.

It would do.

He dropped Roelen off two blocks away, parked the van on a side street, and walked up. As he'd hoped, they were alert to him before he got within fifty yards.

He went inside. "My daughter!" Gustav shouted before he'd even shut the door. "My daughter is safe?"

"They're fine," Robert assured him. "They are on a train bound for Vienna even as we speak. Now we will think about how we're getting you out of here, shall we?"

"I will not leave this country until I'm sure they are safe."

McCall glared at him. "You have my word, Gustav, they are on their way to safety, and everything that can be done to protect them has been done. And unlike you, my word is actually good for something."

"You don't understand, Robert."

"I understand that you put millions of lives at risk."

"I loved her. If you had ever loved a woman like her …"

"Don't," McCall barked. "Don't presume to lecture me about love. Don't presume that you know anything about me, Gustav. And don't presume that we're still friends."

An uneasy silence fell over the safe house. The men settled in to wait for news.

* * *

Kostmayer tried to appear relaxed. Lily and the child were sitting across from him, so it was easy to watch the front of the car without being too obvious about it. There were a couple of men in suits in the first row that made him uneasy. Maybe they were just traveling businessmen. Maybe they were Soviet agents, looking for Elena.

They hadn't given him or Lily a second look, but they probably had a picture of Gustav's daughter. He hoped Harley could keep her occupied. In a bit, he'd wander up to the other car and pass his thoughts along.

It might just be paranoia. But, as the t-shirt said, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

He glanced at Romanov again. She was perfectly at ease, leaving the watching to him, playing peek with the little girl, and then 'what's that,' pointing at facial features and body parts. The child seemed happy enough, though she was looking a bit sleepy now.

"You're not happy," Lily said quietly.

Kostmayer nodded. "The suits in the front row. I don't like them."

"You don't like anybody in suits."

"I'm having a vision."

"Tell me."

"I'm picturing Elena deciding that she has to come back and check on us, and this little one jumping up and screaming, 'Mommy, mommy!'"

Lily nodded. "I can see it. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know." Mickey looked around. They were already in the last car of the train. There was nowhere to retreat to. "Got a timetable?"

Lily rummaged in her pockets with one hand, came out with a train schedule. Mickey studied it. "Damn. I was thinking we'd get off at the next stop and catch the next train, but it doesn't come through until tomorrow."

"Elena'll go completely crazy."

"Yeah." Mickey eyed the back of the suits' heads again. "I just don't like this."

"What if we take the north line?" Lily suggested. "Back of the schedule."

Kostmayer turned the chart over and looked at it. "They've got a train three hours behind us. That's do-able. But we've got to get up there."

"It cuts south of the mountains here," Lily said. It's only about ten clicks."

"Can we get a car?"

She hesitated, trying to remember. "I don't think so."

"We can walk that far."

"Hauling her?"

Mickey studied the child for a moment. "We can do it."

"You want to go tell Harley?"

"Nah. Let's let it be a surprise." Mickey smiled at her look. "Oh, all right, I'll tell him."

* * *

Mark was leaning against a tree, mostly hidden behind a bush, watching the street in front of the safe house. He was bored, but tried to stay alert. The senior agent in the house seemed pleasant enough, but Mark's instincts told him that Robert McCall was probably the last man on earth he wanted to be on the bad side of. If McCall wanted the old man safe, Mark was going to do everything he could to keep him safe.

At least there were some new faces. For months, he'd barely talked to anybody but Roelen and the rest of his team. Now there was this McCall, and Kostmayer – who had also pinged his instincts for self-preservation – and Gage, and the girl.

The girl was gorgeous, and he'd known from the start she was out of his league. But she was so damn friendly. She understood him, and listened to him. She seemed to like him, even. Not like him like him, but like him in a friendly way. Mark had to admit, though, there was something about her, too, that made him not want to piss her off. He had half an idea that she and Kostmayer had something going, anyhow.

A man walked by the house on the sidewalk. He was tall and skinny, maybe McCall's age, and he seemed to look at the house an awful lot as he walked by. Mark watched him until he was out of sight. Then he keyed his radio, silently thanking the girl that they finally had radios. "I just had a walk-by out front," he said quietly.

"Coming out," Roelen answered immediately. A minute later, his team leader was at his elbow. "He keep going?"

Mark nodded. "North. Could be nothing. But he took a long look."

They waited together. Mark felt a prickle on the back of his neck and glanced up. There was a shadow behind every curtain on the second floor, and every shadow, he knew, had a gun in its hand. He began to feel like an idiot for raising the alarm over an innocent pedestrian. Then the man came back, on the other side of the street, still looking the house over. "Him," Mark said, gesturing with his head.

"Confirmed," Roelen said into his radio.

"Take him," McCall answered quickly.

"What?" Mark said. Fortunately his finger wasn't on the button. Roelen shoved him, and he broke cover and walked swiftly across the street, gratefully aware of his giant team leader at his shoulder. "Excuse me, sir? Sir?" They were going to grab this guy off the street? For what? And do what with him?

The man took one look at them and started running. Somehow, it made it a lot easier for Mark to run him down and tackle his legs. The man hit the sidewalk hard. He rolled over and flailed at the young agent, grabbing his jacket ineffectively.

Roelen bent down, folded the guy's arms behind him, and marched him back to the safe house. Mark stood up and brushed himself off, made his way uneasily back to his hiding spot. "Okay," he said to his radio, "now what?"

"Now stay there and watch for others," McCall told him crisply. "Nice work, Mark."

The young man tried not to grin, and failed. Why should two words of praise from a man he barely knew mean so much to him? But they did, and he stood guard just a bit more vigilantly than before. Robert McCall had finally remembered his name.

* * *

Roelen stopped just inside the door, still restraining the intruder easily. "Who are you," McCall demanded, patting the man down, "and what do you want here?"

"I am not … I mean no harm … he pushed me, he threw me on the ground and I … let me go!"

"Vlad!" Gustav said suddenly. "Vlad, what are you doing here? Let him go, let him go!"

At a nod from Robert, Ted released the man. He and Freda fell into a brief embrace. "What are you doing here?" Gustav wondered aloud. "How did you find me?"

"When I heard you had escaped from prison, I went to your house. I knew you'd contact Elena, sooner or later. And then, when these men came – I followed them back here."

McCall growled audibly. "Gustav, do you know this man?" he asked tightly.

"Of course I do. This is Vladimir Nagy. He is my oldest friend."

* * *

"Oh, man," Kostmayer said. "We gotta take a break."

He was carrying Maria on his shoulders. She was content there, with her two little fists tugging on his hair, but she kept leaning to the side or backwards, relying on his grip on her legs to keep her from falling. Her position forced his head forward, making it more difficult to keep his balance. The muscles in the back of his neck were screaming with pain.

"Got her," Lily said, grabbing the baby from behind and pulling her down. "I'll carry her for a while." She slung the toddler over her hip, shifted her shoulder pack around, gave Mickey the diaper bag.

"You can't," Mickey answered. "I already tried that."

"Yes, but I have the hips for it."

They walked on a way. Kostmayer had to admit, she did a lot better at carrying the child in her arms than he had, and it was the hips that made the difference. But they hadn't gone five hundred yards before she had to switch the girl to the other arm. Mickey rolled his head back and shrugged his shoulders up and down, trying to work the cramps out of his neck before he had to take over the carrying again. "I could make this hike with a sixty-pound pack, no problem. She can't weigh half of that and she's killing us."

"Weight distribution," Lily answered. She sounded a little winded.

"I guess."

They trudged a little further. The hike was fairly easy. They'd found an old dirt road that so far was headed in the right direction. It was grassy and rutted, but it was fairly flat and kept them out of the heaviest trees and bushes. It seemed likely that it ran all the way to the next town – and the next train station.

"Wait," Lily said. "This is idiotic." She stopped and put the child down in the grass. "Keep an eye on her." She slipped out of her backpack and started unloading it, stuffing some of the contents into her jacket pockets, making a pile of the others.

The toddler wandered, not far, picking flowers and grass with both fists. "What are you doing?" Kostmayer asked.

"Weight distribution," Lily answered. She finished emptying the main compartment of the pack. It was just a small daypack, but it was heavy-duty, canvas with a suede leather bottom. "Got a knife?"

"Of course." She would have one, too, naturally. One of the things he liked best about Lily Romanov was that she never tried to do things on her own to impress him; if she knew he could do it better, she asked.

"Make an X-cut, here and here."

He didn't have to ask how big; he understood her plan by then. He made the cuts. Lily packed the rest of her gear into the diaper bag. Maria was still happy to play in the grass, so they sat and rested and drank a little water.

Kostmayer watched Lily, watching the child. "You doin' okay?"

"I've walked further than this, Mickey."

"I meant with her." Lily glanced at him curiously. "I can count, you know."

Her face grew flat, expressionless. "And what, you came along to make sure I didn't grab the kid and split for Rio?"

"No."

"Just pity, then?"

"Nope. Just a little understanding." Kostmayer took a breath. "Annie and I lost a baby."

The edge left her eyes. "Oh. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. We were just kids anyhow, we didn't have any business trying to raise a kid of our own, but … anyhow, he was stillborn. Seven months." He looked back at the toddler, who had captured some kind of bug. While he watched, she popped it into her mouth, made a face, and spit it out. "The first year or so is the hardest."

"Then does it go away?"

"No. It just gets easier to bury."

Lily sighed. "Thanks, Mickey," she said quietly.

He stood up and stretched. "We got a train to catch. Maria! Want to go for a ride?"

The toddler turned and looked at him. "No!"

"You can ride in my backpack."

"No!"

"And then we'll go ride another train," Lily promised.

"No!" the girl shrieked. She turned and ran on her little legs up the road away from them.

Mickey and Lily looked at each other wearily. "Well," Kostmayer said, "that'll work, too."

They gathered up their gear and started after her.

She ran a surprising distance before she came back and demanded to be carried. Lily stuffed her into the makeshift carrier, helped Mickey get it onto his back, and adjusted the straps. "Better?"

Kostmayer shrugged the straps into place. The child was tight against his back, her legs on either side of his waist, her head just above his shoulder. She could still shift back and forth – and did – but it was much, much more comfortable to carry her. "It's good. See if you can find me a walking stick."

Lily trotted into the woods beside the road, came back with a sturdy stick about five feet long. "This?"

"Good. Let's go."

They hiked for a bit in comfortable silence. The road grew hillier as they went; Mickey was glad he had the stick for balance, though the toddler finally stopped thrashing. They crested a hill and stopped, looked down into a slow, wide valley. He shifted the pack again, gripped his sturdy walking stick, looked back at his hiking companion. It all seemed so familiar, somehow.

Kostmayer began to chuckle.

"What?" Lily asked.

The chuckle grew into a full laugh. "Look at us," Mickey said. "We've turned into the Von Trapp family."

Lily stared at him, and then she laughed, too. "Yeah, but we managed to ditch six of the kids."

"Does this make me a captain now?"

"It makes you a baron, dear. And it makes me an ex-nun."

"That's a good one."

They started down the hill, still laughing. "Shall I sing?" Lily offered.

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"Sing!" Maria demanded.

"Trust me, kid, you don't want her to sing."

"Sing!"

Giggling, Lily leaned very close and sang softly, "How do you solve a problem like Maria?"

Kostmayer groaned. "Oh, somebody please shoot me."

* * *

McCall paced the room with slow, measured steps. He listened to the old men chatter. Listened for a single word that didn't ring true. He didn't like surprises, and he didn't much like Vlad.

The old friend's story was that he had kept in touch with Gustav's wife and daughter all the years his friend had been in prison. He'd helped them out when he could, looked after their interests. Gustav confirmed some of this, from what he'd heard from his wife. When he heard that his friend had escaped from prison, Vlad's first thought was that Gustav would come back to the family home. So he had waited there, just watching, to see how he could help.

Shelby's people had indeed spotted him watching the house, but had assumed he was with the authorities, not a free agent. It mollified McCall a little that at least they'd been aware of him.

When Harley moved Elena out of the house, Vlad had sensed it was a ploy to draw off the authorities. He'd stayed behind and waited for Gustav to show up. When he didn't, Vlad waited until everyone had left, then followed Shelby's remaining people back to the safe house.

Such a simple explanation, Robert mused, still pacing. He couldn't poke a hole in it anywhere. He still didn't like it.

Morris was out learning about Vlad, but Robert doubted he'd turn up anything. Gustav's old friend, nothing more. But McCall didn't like surprises.

Harley and Elena made it across the border before dark. They had no problems with the authorities; their papers were in order, and they seemed like a sweet couple, snuggling up there on the train. "Now," Elena said, as the train moved on into Austria, "I can go see my daughter."

"Of course you can," Harley murmured. "In just a bit, hmm?" He drew her closer and kissed her deeply. To his great relief, she settled into his arms, content.

It should work, Harley thought, until they got to Vienna. Once they got off the train and Maria didn't, there was going to be hell to pay. He sent up a brief, feverent prayer that Kostmayer had caught the next train.


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh my God, what is that smell?" Mickey asked suddenly.

Lily nodded serenely at the child, who was smiling innocently from her arms.

"You're kidding, right? _ That_ little kid made _that_ giant smell?"

"We probably shouldn't have given her all those grapes," Lily answered.

"Uhhhh … you are going to change her, right?"

"I thought I'd ask you to."

"No."

"But, Mickey."

"No. There is no way I'm going near that kid's smelly little butt."

"Why, because it's woman's work?"

"No, because I'm the one with the gun and I need to keep my hands free."

"I have a gun," Lily argued.

"But I'm the one who can actually aim and shoot the gun."

Lily laughed. "Oh, fine, I knew that would come up eventually. I'll change her. After we hit the border."

Kostmayer considered. They were about ten minutes out. "You've got time."

"Yeah. But I want to discourage them from lingering over our documents."

"Well, that'll pretty much do it." He glanced around, then moved to the other side of the aisle. "Better sight lines over here," he explained.

"Oh, sure. My big brave ex-SEAL, scared off by a little poopy diaper."

"Absolutely."

The train pulled into the border station a few minutes later. The crackly loudspeaker asked that all passengers remain seated while documents were checked. Lily waited until the officials were in their car, then struggled to her feet with the baby and the diaper bag.

"Miss," a young officer said, "you'll have to sit down."

"I need to change the baby."

"You can change her after we've checked your papers."

Lily hesitated. "I'm afraid it's a bit of an emergency."

The officer closed on her. "Miss, sit down!"

A more senior official came back, attracted by the commotion. "What's the problem here?"

"I really need to change this baby," Lily said plaintively.

"I told her she would need to wait until her documents were checked."

"Then check them," Lily said, shoving her papers at him. She looked to the senior man. "She's, er, leaking."

The senior official sniffed the air, grabbed the papers, flipped through them rapidly, and shoved them back. "Please, miss, go ahead and change her."

"Thank you so much …"

"There's no need to thank me, just go."

Kostmayer watched them move to the front of the car. His own papers were no problem; the officials seemed eager to clear out of the car.

When they were gone, he went around and opened all the windows.

* * *

Elena stood on the platform, watching as the crowd of passengers leaving the last car thinned and disappeared. "She's not here, is she?" she said to Harley.

"No. They got off the train hours ago."

She whirled, furious. "Why? Where are they? Where is my daughter?"

People turned to look. "Hush," Harley said, moving very close to her. "Maria is fine. They're taking another train for safety. They'll be here in a few hours." He surveyed the crowd swiftly, picked up at least two friendly faces. They'd look like a parade getting out of here; Control was taking no chances.

"Where is she?" Elena screeched.

Gage grabbed her arm. "You see those men over there? In the suits? Do you know who they are?"

"N-no."

"Neither do we, but they sure as hell look like Soviet agents." They were no threat now, not with the amount of back-up Gage could feel around him, but he didn't need to tell Elena that. "For your safety, and for Maria's, we put her on another train. They will be here in a few hours. Now stop making a scene."

She glared up at him, frightened and furious. "You lied to me!" she hissed.

Harley considered for a split instant. He could continue to lead her on – she was very lead-able. He liked her, rather a lot. But this was business, and the smartest thing to do was break clean. "I lie to women all the time," he answered lightly. "It gets them to do what I want."

Elena slapped him.

"I deserved that," Gage admitted at once. "Now that you've got it out of your system, we're going to get a cab and go to the hotel, and we're going to wait. In a few hours Lily will bring your daughter, safe and sound. I promise."

"Why should I believe you?" Elena spat. She spun on her heel and stomped away.

Her beautiful exit was almost immediately hampered by the fact that she didn't know where she was going. She faltered, looking around the massive station for the first time. Then, reluctantly, she turned back to Harley.

He smiled gently and took her by the arm. "Welcome to the West," he said softly.

"Miserable bastard," she answered.

Harley shook his head. At least she couldn't lay her hands on a grenade.

* * *

"Vlad will come with us to America," Gustav announced.

"No."

"He is my friend. He is like an uncle to my daughter. He is family."

McCall's expression never changed. "No."

"I insist, Robert."

"You have insisted quite enough for one mission, Gustav. Your daughter and your granddaughter are safely away, as you asked. I will not take any further chances."

"Vlad is like a brother to me."

McCall shook his head. "I cannot arrange documents for him this quickly, even if I wanted to. He can apply for a conventional visa and join you in a few months, if he wants. I am not taking him out of the country."

Freda looked smug. "Then he will go to the authorities and report my location."

Robert's eyes narrowed dangerously. "He will do nothing of the sort. If I think he will, I will leave him dead in the cellar. Is that clear?"

Gustav was wise enough to be afraid, at least. "Please, Robert. He is my friend. He has looked after my wife, my daughter, all these years. He is like a brother to me, he always has been. Please, it is no additional risk to you."

"No."

"I will … I will give you a second location."

McCall moved like a striking viper, grabbing Freda by the collar with both hands. "You will give us all the locations, Gustav, every last one of them. You will not negotiate with us any more. Your daughter and your granddaughter are safe, and we will get you to safety, but that is the end of the arrangement. There will be no further deals. Do you understand? You have won every concession that you are going to win. From here forward, you will do exactly as you are told and you will ask for nothing. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Unexpectedly, the old man's eyes filled with tears. "So many years, in that prison, with no friends, no one to talk to … you don't know what Vlad means to me."

Robert dropped him, disgusted with the old man and with himself. "You chose those years, Gustav," he reminded him coldly.

"Please, Robert. Please."

With a growl, McCall turned and stomped away.

* * *

They arrived at the train station just after dark. Mickey hauled the gear, let Lily keep the sleeping child. He looked around swiftly. One in the balcony, two on the floor. "I'll get a cab," he said. "It's not like I'll be leaving you alone."

Lily nodded tiredly and made her way more slowly after him, wondering where the fourth member of the greeting committee was.

The fourth was driving the cab. "Took you guys long enough. Harley's been here for hours."

"With the woman, I hope," Kostmayer answered.

"Oh, yeah. And boy, is she pissed."

"He's a big boy. I'm sure he can handle it."

They got settled in the cab. Maria stirred and whimpered, then put her head down and went back to sleep. "She'll be up all night," Lily mused.

"Not our problem," Mickey answered cheerfully. "Tony, any word from anywhere?"

The driver shook his head. "Nothing from the Bloc. Control wants you – " he paused to nod his head toward Lily, "to call before you head back in."

Mickey smirked at her. "Oh, sure. He doesn't want to talk to _me_ on the phone, does he?"

"Shut up, you."

They reached the hotel. Mickey got out and reached back to take the child. They left the gear to Tony, checked around for the rest of the back-up, and made their way to the elevator. "Can I ask you something?" Lily asked, as the door shut them in alone.

"Shoot."

"The child you lost," she said carefully. "Is that what keeps you together, or what keeps you apart?"

It was a simple question, and he could guess why she was asking it. But suddenly Mickey found himself chilled, breathless, covered with goose pimples. It was as if Lily had gently stuck her finger right into the center of his heart. He shuddered and nearly dropped the child in his arms; his fingers felt frozen.

"Mickey?" Lily asked.

"I … I …" He made himself take a deep breath, shook his head hard, shook it off. "I don't know."

Lily was genuinely alarmed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to …"

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I just … that's the question I should have been asking all along. I just don't know."

She laced her fingers through his beneath the child's back. "I'm sorry, honey."

Kostmayer shook his head again as the elevator stopped. "Let's just get this kid home."

* * *

"Control."

"It's Romanov."

Control sat back from his desk. "Where are you?"

"Vienna."

"Secure line?"

"Yes." There was no beeping confirmation; he'd have to take her word for it. "The daughter and the baby are here safe. Harley's going to take them on to London. We have eight back-up in place. Mickey and I are headed back in."

"No," Control said. "Not yet."

"Okay."

His field ops, to a man, would have argued with him. Lily just waited for further instructions. "Send Mickey back," he said. "I want you to stay where you are. Get a room in the hotel, get some sleep. I'm sending Charlie to meet you."

"Uh … okay." This confused her. She knew who Charlie was; there was no need to stretch security by mentioning his last name.

"He'll have a message for you."

"To take to Robert."

"No. The message is for you. And you alone. Read it and destroy it. Call me if you have any questions, but be careful what you say."

There was a brief pause; Control could almost see her chewing on his words. "Can we back up?" she said. "You're sending Charlie – a senior covert – to _me_, a courier, with a message?"

Control almost smiled. "Yes."

"Can you say that one more time?"

"Yes, Lily, I appreciate the irony. Can you follow the instructions?"

"There's no need to get snippy. It'll never happen again, let me enjoy the moment."

Control did chuckle then. "Enjoy your moment. He'll be there by morning."

"Okay."

"Anything else you need?"

"I think we're good."

Control nodded to himself. "I know you are. You know where to find me."

"Later," she said, and hung up the phone.

* * *

Lily knocked lightly on the hotel door. Elena snapped it open. "What?" Then she hesitated. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought it was _him_."

"No, just me."

Behind her, Maria squealed cheerfully. It was ten at night, and thanks to her late nap, she was showing no sign of sleepiness. Elena scowled at her. "Come in," she said. "We're still up, as you can see."

"Sorry about that." Lily went in and picked up the child. "I just came to see if there was anything you needed."

Elena stretched her arms out. "This room is bigger than my house. I have called room service. I have everything I need."

"Good. Our guys are just outside, if anything bothers you or if you want anything."

"The only thing that can bother me now is him."

Lily nodded. "Yeah, Harley's like that sometimes. He's got a good heart, though. Somewhere."

"I can't believe I let myself think … well, it was circumstance, I suppose. I was frightened and he was comforting. It was nothing more than that. I am not such a great fool as my father was. When do we leave for London?"

"Tomorrow. Unless you want to wait here for your father."

Elena laughed. "That old fool? I don't care if I never see him again."

Maria climbed from Lily's arms and went to play with the television. "Why's that?" Lily asked gently.

"We should have been living like this all along. He had a chance to defect, did you know that? When he was first arrested, his contacts, is that what they're called, they came to my mother, offered to get us all out. We could have been living in the West, instead of spending our lives in bread lines, meat lines, shoe lines."

"Your mother didn't want to leave her country," Lily supplied.

Elena laughed. "My mother didn't want to leave her lover."

"Oh."

"My 'uncle' Vlad. He was my father's best friend. The day he was arrested, dear Uncle Vlad came to the house and offered to take care of everything for us. Well, he took care of things, all right. He was one like that Harley. Never missed an opportunity. So, my father sits in prison, because he loves his wife so, and she's at home, upstairs with Uncle Vlad. And I'm waiting in the bread lines."

"Hmmm," Lily murmured noncommittally.

"But that's over now, isn't it? Now we live the good life."

"Yeah," Lily said softly, "thanks to the old fool."

"What?"

"Nothing. Good night, Elena."

* * *

Kostmayer arrived at the new safe house in time for breakfast the next day. "All the parcels are safely delivered," he reported to McCall, diving into the last of the eggs. "Lily's holding for orders; she'll catch up to us."

"Good, good."

"Is there any toast? Who's the new guy?"

McCall growled. "Our dear friend Vlad. He followed Shelby's people from Elena's house. He wants to defect also."

Mickey shrugged. "We can get the documents made, no problem."

"We'll see. Finish your breakfast. I'd like you to pick up something for me. And then I think we should go."

"Not waiting for dark?"

Robert shook his head. "No. This Vlad – I don't know. There's something wrong. I want to get moving."

"Okay." Kostmayer folded his toast in half and shoved it in his mouth. "Let's go."

* * *

Mark looked around the empty storefront nervously. "You sure this is the right place?"

Kostmayer glanced at the paper in his hand. Lily had written the name and the address very precisely. "This is it. Just wait."

A few minutes later, a very old woman shuffled in. "You come for the girl's packages?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"This way. This way."

They followed her to the back room. There, stacked against the wall, were ten cases of Russian vodka. "Ah," Mickey said, "the good stuff."

"Money now," the old woman said.

Mickey handed her an envelope. She stood between him and the vodka and counted it. "You load it yourself."

He threw a wry glance at Mark. "I think we can handle it from here."

"Good." The woman went away without another word.

Mark came closer to the stack of cases. "Uh … really good party?"

"You wish," Mickey answered. "No, I'm thinking McCall's about to give some of us up like little lambs."

"Oh."

Mickey grinned. "C'mon, get this stuff in the car. It'll be okay. It usually is."

* * *

"We're moving out," McCall announced.

Freda sat up. "I want proof."

Robert brought out a note, hand-written on stationary from the hotel in Vienna. On it, Elena had scrawled, 'We are safe in Vienna. Come ahead.'

Gustav took it and read it. "This is all she writes?"

"We are pressed for time," McCall reminded him.

"But I thought … this is so brief. I hardly know her handwriting, she was just a little girl when I went away, and she writes so little to me …"

"It is her handwriting," Robert said tightly. "Elena and her daughter are safe in Vienna, and are going on to London, where you will meet them. I give you my word on that. I have met your terms. We are leaving. Now."

"Where's the girl?" Freda said suddenly. "Laurie – Lily. I want to see her. I will believe her."

"You're a very great fool," McCall said under his breath.

Freda waved the note frantically. "I cannot be sure. I do not know her writing."

Unexpectedly, Vlad came to Robert's aid. "Here, Gustav, let me see it. I know her writing better than you." He took the note and examined it. "It is her," he promised. "And it is her style to be so terse. We must go now, Gustav. We cannot afford to wait any more."

McCall eyed him suspiciously. He wondered if Freda had been fool enough to tell him about the cabbages; Robert had warned him not to, but Gustav seemed extraordinarily bad at taking advice. Still, his words got the old man on his feet. "Twenty minutes," Robert said.

* * *

Harley caught up with the woman as she was checking out. "You headed back?" he asked quietly, drawing her away from the desk.

"Yes," Lily answered. "You staying?"

"Oh, yes. Elena has graciously agreed to let me accompany her to London."

"She's still miffed, is she?"

Harley shook his head. "All I did was kiss her, I swear. You can ask the other guys on the train. I mean, it's not like I , I don't know, spent the weekend with her, swore my eternal love, and then threw her over for somebody else first thing Monday morning."

Lily considered him, amused. "Some women have lower thresholds for wrath."

"Yeah. But for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really am."

"Thank you," Romanov answered, just as sincerely. "I'm sorry I over-reacted."

"You really did, you know. But I should have known that a woman capable of great passion is also capable of … of … never mind. Um, what I said at the safe house, I'm sorry for that, too."

The gentle smile in her eyes hardened. "Ah, you've been talking to somebody."

"There are no secrets in the Company, you know that. I just wanted to tell you …"

"Don't," Lily said firmly. "I don't need your pity, and anything you say will just make it worse."

"No, I just wanted to say, I never really thought you weren't a real agent, I was just kidding around, you know? I mean, I know us field types always act like we think couriers are just junior league …"

"Not making it any better, Harley."

He wasn't, and he knew it. He floundered with the words. "I – I'm sorry. That's all."

Lily nodded slowly. "Thanks, Harley. I gotta go."

"Give my best to McCall."

* * *

Lily threw her daypack – a new one – over her shoulder and headed out. Hailed a cab, and had him take the scenic route around the city. She did not think anyone would follow her – why would they? – but she was nervous, and nervous expressed itself as caution. Control had taken the precaution to send Charlie McGinn – among the most senior of senior agents – with his message. She could damn well take a few extra minutes to be sure she wasn't caught carrying it out.

One stop. One brief meeting. One rather startled agent that she had no business talking to. Then she was on her way to the train station, and on her way back to McCall.


	17. Chapter 17

There were still roadblocks on every major road out of Pristina. The police manning them, however, had been looking into back seats and trunks for days, and they were rather bored with the whole process. Still, the panel van warranted a closer look.

"What's in the back?" the oldest officer asked the driver, a pleasant-seeming, gray-haired man.

"Samples, fabric samples. We manufacture and sell upholstery fabrics in Bratislava."

"It's locked," his assistant called to him.

"Open it. Not you," he said to the older man, "you stay put." He gestured to the brown-haired man in the passenger seat. "You get out and open it."

The younger man nodded and climbed out. He unlocked the back and opened the van doors. Inside was a jumble of bolts and big fabric books, filling the space between and over the two closed benches that lined the side walls. The officer eyed two large black cases. "What's in there?"

"I'll show you," the young man said eagerly. "We're starting a new line, an upscale line, with silks." He popped one of the cases open, and fabric swatches spilled out. "Damn it, he never shuts these cases right. They're supposed to stay inside, all nice and displayed, I've told him a million times …"

The policeman was already bored. "All right. Lock it up, move along."

"But see this fabric here, touch it, can you imagine a chair made of that? You'd never want to stand up, it would be so comfortable …"

"I said, move along."

"Okay, okay." Mickey scowled at the cop behind his back as he locked the van. He climbed back into the passenger sear and nodded to McCall. "Well, that was easy."

Robert nodded, pleased. "I doubt the border will be as casual," he answered. "But it's a promising start."

He drove until they were a good bit past the checkpoint before he sent Kostmayer back to let the fugitives out.

"Where are we going now?" Freda demanded apprehensively.

"To another safe house," McCall answered. "We will change vehicles there and wait for dark."

"Maybe it would be best to just keep going," Vlad argued. "We could be practically across the border by sundown."

McCall glanced at Mickey. "No, I think we'll stick to my plan for now."

Freda piped up, "But if we kept going, we could hide in the benches again at the border, it was a good plan there, and they would never find us …"

"No," Robert answered tightly. "We stick to my plan."

"But I really think …"

McCall was busy driving, but Mickey wasn't. He turned around and looked at each of the men, pointedly, in turn.

They stopped arguing.

* * *

The new safe house wasn't a house at all, but a barn, tight and clean, which sat at the top of a hill with wide fields on every side. Lily had recommended it highly, and McCall liked it very much.

They put the van inside. One sedan was already there, and another joined them shortly. A few minutes after that a blue sedan and a gray mini pulled in, courtesy of Shelby's team. McCall posted his sentries outside and in before he went exploring. As promised, one of the stalls contained a picnic basket stuffed with food, enough blankets to make three or four beds in the hay, a new set of radios, clean clothes, and new license plates for all the cars. There were also, of course, Girl Scout cookies.

The barn had running water and a small bathroom in the corner. It was not luxurious, but it was safe, tight and defensible.

The afternoon drifted past. McCall rotated the sentries, made sure everybody got fed and had a chance to rest. There was no suspicious activity in the area. Mickey went out and took a wide patrol around the barn; he returned satisfied of their security.

No one was chasing them. Still, McCall could not shake his uneasiness. Something was tickling his intuition; something was wrong.

Two hours before sunset, Romanov returned.

"My daughter," Gustav demanded. "My daughter is safe?"

"Yes," Lily answered, a little confused. "Didn't Mickey tell you?"

"I believe you."

"Oh." Lily rummaged in her pockets and handed him a stack of Polaroid pictures.

Gustav looked at them slowly, lovingly. "This is Maria? She is so big now. I think in my mind she is only a baby, but she is a girl now."

"A girl of strong opinion," Lily agreed. "They are safe and happy, Gustav. Harley will take them on to London tomorrow."

"We'll meet them there," Robert added, "and then we'll go to America together."

"America," Gustav said warmly. "I will be glad when we get there."

"We'll all be glad when you get there."

Vlad came across the barn floor to them. Unexpectedly, he spoke in Serbo-Croatian, for Gustav's ears only. "You told me there was a woman. You did not tell me she was such a tasty little thing." He caught Lily's hand and switched to English. "It was very sweet of you to bring pictures, my dear. Gustav has been so terribly worried. I thank you." He bent and kissed her hand – and then kept it.

The openly wolfish look in his eyes made Robert want to sucker-punch him. Lily, however, seemed quite undisturbed. "Gustav also failed to mention," she answered, in Serbo-Croatian also, "that I'm quite fluent in your native tongue."

Being caught out only sharpened the man's lecherous edge. He switched languages again. "Perhaps you would like to become more familiar with my native tongue, hmmm?"

"Perhaps I would find it a tedious bore," she answered evenly.

Vlad threw his head back and laughed. "A feisty one," he said in English. "You American girls are all alike. Always playing so hard to get. Always the sharp words, before you give in."

McCall had had enough. "In her case, there's a sharp knife up her sleeve to back her sharp words." He claimed Lily's hand from Vlad, not gently. "A word, my dear?"

The woman rather melted against him. "Of course, darling. Will you excuse us?" She took Robert's arm and led him, eagerly, away from Vlad. "Who the hell is that creep?" she asked, perhaps before they were out of earshot.

"Gustav's best friend," Robert answered tersely. "He thinks he's defecting with us."

"Is he?"

McCall grunted. "Perhaps. But if anything at all goes wrong, I'm fully prepared to jettison friend Vlad."

"Oh," Lily laughed, "so that's Uncle Vlad."

"You know about him?"

"Elena talked about him."

"Of course. Apparently he looked after the family while Freda was in prison." He shook his head. "There is something very much wrong about him."

"Uh-huh," Lily agreed. "This taking care of the family? Rather more taking care of the wife than the daughter. Upstairs. With the door locked."

"Ahhh. Like that, was it? Gustav's dear old friend." Robert sighed. He knew people too well. He should have seen this. The wife and the old friend. Now the wife was dead, and the old friend was importuning on the friendship to get out of the country. Small wonder he'd picked up such a strange vibe from friend Vlad. It was good to know his instincts were still sharp, anyhow. He nodded, more to himself than to her. "Shall we tell Gustav?"

"Oh, let's. This trip needs a little additional psychodrama, don't you think?"

"Promise me something, Lily. Promise me that no matter what happens in the future, you will never, ever, end up in my bed."

The woman smiled wholesomely. "I find it strange enough that I'm sleeping in your son's bed now, don't you?"

McCall groaned out loud – and changed the subject. "What did Control have to say?"

"Short version, in his saddle or over it, he wants Gustav out of this country now."

McCall nodded. He had expected as much. "They found the warhead."

"Five miles outside London city limits."

"Do the British know?"

"If they did, you could hear them screaming from here. They don't know _yet_. But secrets don't keep in the community, especially secrets this big. We need to move."

"As soon as it's dark," Robert promised.

"Anything else you need?"

"I think we're set. Morris got documents for Vlad already." He considered for a moment. "Do you think Mark could handle a lover's quarrel with you?"

Lily blinked at him. "No."

"A pretend one."

"Oh, that. Sure, he could do it, with a little coaching."

"Coach him, then. I'll send Shelby and Roelen with the vodka. I want Mickey with me. The others just to clog traffic. That should be enough distraction."

Lily nodded. "All right. I'll talk to Mark, and then I want to go over the cars one more time."

"Just try to stay clear of friend Vlad, will you?"

"Can I shoot him if I need to?"

"I wouldn't object at all."

* * *

"Do you have a map?" Mark asked.

"Because I'm a long way from heaven?" Lily answered cheerfully.

The young man shook his head, laughing. "I lost my phone number."

"Do you want to borrow mine?"

"Are you religious?"

Lily finished checking the trunk and slammed it shut, moved around to the driver's door. "Because I'm the answer to all your prayers."

Mark followed. "You really have heard every line, haven't you?"

"Every last damn one of them." She reached under the seat, pulled out a worn snowbrush, put it back.

"What are we looking for?"

She moved around to the passenger side. "Anything that's out of place. Anything that a native or a tourist wouldn't be carrying. Like this." She pulled out an empty Girl Scout cookie box and handed it to him. "Anything that will get us busted."

"Sorry."

Lily shook her head. "No big. That's why we're checking."

"Uh … do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Or should you walk by again."

"Here I am. What were your other two wishes?"

Lily laughed out loud. "Keep trying, sweetie."

Kostmayer drifted over. "Can I take your picture?" he asked Lily. "I want to show Santa exactly what I want for Christmas."

"Don't listen to him," Lily advised Mark. "He doesn't do any better than you do."

"Hey," Mickey protested. "I do all right."

"It's not your line, though, it's the crooked boyish grin. It's almost an Elvis thing."

Kostmayer grinned at her, crookedly.

"Yeah," Lily said, "like that."

"Children," McCall gruffed, "are the cars clean? Are we all ready to go?"

"Anybody need to hit the head?" Mickey called. "No pit stops until Austria."

"We're set," Lily answered.

"Good."

"Oh, I got another one," Mark piped up. "I'm starting to think I might be gay …"

"Prove it," Lily shot back.

"Uh … I … uh …"

"Son," Robert sighed, "that line was old when _I_ was young."

Mark shook his head. "I got nothin'."

"Keep trying," McCall encouraged. "It won't get you anywhere, but you need the practice."

The young man sputtered, almost exactly like Scott did. "I … but … hey, I …"

"In the car, please. Let's move out."

"I … but … I …"

"Where's Vlad?" Gustav called in concern.

McCall spun around, expecting trouble, but he spotted the other man almost at once. He was sitting in the back seat of the blue sedan, waiting patiently. "No," Robert sighed, opening the car door. "We're going in that car." He pointed to the enhanced model.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Vlad said sincerely. "I misunderstood." He climbed out obediently and walked to the other car.

Two of Roelen's men took over the empty car and headed out. Three minutes later, Robert sent Lily and Mark out as well. So far, McCall thought warily, so good. He wasn't a superstitious man, but he touched a wooden support beam before he got in the car all the same.

* * *

"Country of origin?"

"America," Mark said nervously. "Uh. United States."

"Purpose of visit?"

"We're tourists."

"Papers?"

He turned to Lily. "Papers, honey."

"You've got the papers."

"No, you do."

"They're in your jacket pocket."

"No, they're in your purse."

"They're in your jacket," she insisted.

He rummaged through his pockets. "I don't have them. They're in your purse."

Grudgingly, she started searching through her purse. "I gave them to you. What did you do with them this time?"

"I'm so sorry about this," Mark told the guard, with great agitation. "I know she had the papers, we always keep them in her purse, after the last time …"

"He lost them in Moscow," Lily pointed out. "It took two hours to find them. They're not in here, Mark. I know you had them last."

The young man began searching the car frantically, under the seats, in the back. Lily rummaged through the glove box, through her purse again, through her pack.

The guard straightened and looked past the car to the line that was growing behind it. It was half an hour until he went off shift. He was tired, and he'd been dealing with idiots all day. Half an hour, and he could go home to a nice bath, a late dinner, and maybe a tumble with the wife. If he got caught up doing paperwork with these idiots, she'd be long asleep before he got there.

The waiting line was now four cars deep. The young couple's quarrel was heating up, but they showed no papers yet.

"Pull over there," the guard said gruffly.

The young man looked panicked. "No, we have the papers, I swear we do. Maybe they're in my bag. Hang on just a minute, I know where they are, I'll get them …" He climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk. "I know, they're in the blue bag, I put them there for safe-keeping."

"You'll need to move your car," the guard said wearily.

"No, it's fine, just one minute, I know right where they are." He opened the trunk and pushed aside a ridiculous amount of luggage. "Here, they're in here, they're right in here …" The suitcase was locked. He rummaged through his pockets again for keys. "Honey? Do you have the keys to the suitcase?"

The woman got out of the car, too. "I thought you had them."

"No, they're in your purse."

"They're not in my purse. I don't have them."

"Just look, will you? I know I gave them to you."

"You need to move your car to the side," the guard said listlessly.

His supervisor came out. "What's the problem here?"

"They can't find their papers."

"We have them," Mark told him eagerly. "They're just in this bag here, I'm sure of it. Honey, where are those keys?"

"You'll need to move your car," the guard said more firmly. There were now six cars in the line.

"Just give us one minute," Lily said. "I know he has the keys in his jacket pocket …"

"Move your car," the guard said hopelessly.

By the time the guard got rid of them, there were nine cars in the line, and it was twenty minutes until his shift was over.

A red-haired woman was alone in the next car. She was a Belgrade native, and had her documents in order. "Anything to declare?" the guard asked, bored.

She drew out a yellow declaration sheet. The lines for merchandise were completely full, front and back. "I'm an exporter," she explained. "I'm taking samples to one of my outlets.

The guard looked at the list wearily. "All of this is in your trunk?"

"Yes, sir."

The supervisor was still standing there. "Better check it."

"Open the trunk, please."

The woman got out and opened the trunk. There were eight cardboard boxes packed in there, each one stuffed with single pieces of regional art, crafts, and products. The guard looked at the list, looked at the boxes, looked at his watch.

By the time he got rid of her, after a fast and sloppy inventory, it was ten minutes to shift change.

The next car was clean and simple.

A very tall blond man, who seemed very nervous, drove the car after that. He had papers, at least, as did his companion. "Anything to declare?" the guard asked.

"Y – uh, no, no. Nothing at all."

"No," the passenger agreed. "Nothing at all."

The guard looked around the cab of the car. The back seat was stacked with something, covered with a blanket that was meticulously tucked in on all sides. "What's under the blanket?"

"Nothing," the passenger said, too quickly. "Just our luggage, that's all."

"We, uh, we covered it so it doesn't get stolen," the blond volunteered.

"Why didn't you put it in the trunk?"

"Oh, the trunk's full."

"Open it."

"Uh … is that really necessary? We've been waiting in this line forever, we're running behind as it is." The driver slid his hand to the window, a half-concealed American twenty between his fingers. "We're kinda in a hurry."

The guard took the twenty and put it in his pocket. "Open the trunk."

Reluctantly, the blond got out and opened the trunk. It was stuffed with boxes, also covered with a blanket. "See? Just luggage." He offered another twenty.

The guard took the twenty, and peeled back the blanket. Beneath it were cases of Russian vodka. The good stuff.

"Uhhh …" the blond said. "How did that get there?"

The guard gestured for his supervisor again.

It was five minutes to shift change. They confiscated the vodka – ten cases, altogether – and accepted another three hundred American dollars not to arrest the two men.

Two minutes to shift change. Twelve cars waiting in line.

The next car was driven by a younger man, brown-haired. He had three passengers, all older men, all nicely dressed, the two in the back sleeping. He had papers for all of them, in order. "Your purpose?"

"Driving the old folks to the family reunion," Mickey answered quietly. He gestured to the back seat. "My great uncles. Try not to wake them. When they're awake they talk."

The guard nodded sympathetically as he handed the papers back. "I have an uncle like that." He waved the car on.

The guard's replacement came up then, and the guard cheerfully headed for home.


	18. Chapter 18

They drove a good thirty miles past the border before they stopped and met up. Robert felt safer once they were across, but such borders were notorious hot spots for intelligence operatives from both sides. Thirty extra miles should put them out of casual glance range.

Their meeting spot was what Robert dourly referred to as a Control Special – an ugly, dusty, abandoned warehouse. No matter; they were only changing vehicles there, and then they'd be on to Vienna and much better accommodations.

Lily and Mark had arrived ahead of them, as had Roelen's men in the blue sedan. Mickey had passed Roelen and Shelby on the road, but they were close behind them. Before they'd been in the warehouse fifteen minutes, both teams had assembled.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Robert began, to the milling group. "Very nice work. Very nice indeed. But we still have to get to New York safely, so don't drop your guards just yet. Gustav, Vlad, welcome to the West."

"I cannot thank you enough …" Gustav began.

"Nor can I," Vlad finished for him. "We've been trying to get our hands on this man for twelve years, and you have so nicely delivered him for us."

From the shadows, Vlad's men appeared, heavily armed, entirely surrounding them. "Don't," Vlad warned, as Robert reached for his gun. "Nobody move. No weapons. You have no chance. You don't need to die. We are taking my good friend now, and we are going."

"But where?" Gustav asked. "I don't understand. Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere he can torture the locations out of you," Robert guessed. His hands hovered loosely at shoulder level, out to his sides. "What's your cause, Vlad? Are you with some formal terrorist group, or are you just a broker?"

Vlad smiled. "We are not terrorists. We are freedom fighters."

"Oh, brother," Mickey muttered.

"You would betray me?" Gustav demanded, bewildered. "You have been my friend so many years … only for the warheads?"

"Oh, he was also entertaining your wife while he waited," McCall said. "Believe me, Gustav, the betrayal has been complete."

"Yes, well, we had to do something to pass the time," Vlad sighed. He held a hand out, and one of his henchlings gave him a pistol. "Now, gentlemen, if you would all be so kind as to empty your weapons and drop them onto the ground – slowly, carefully. Do not give my men any cause for alarm. Gustav here is the only one we really need alive."

No one moved until Robert nodded. Then, as directed, they began to drop their weapons. McCall watched intently, counting the number of holdout weapons the group probably had. Vlad might be patient, but he did not seem experienced. Robert drew his own Walther, dropped the clip out, and tossed it at his feet. "I suppose there's a tracking device in that car," he said, gesturing with his head to the blue sedan. The man had been sitting in the back seat at the barn, so innocently ignorant that McCall had not seen past the ruse.

"Very good, Mr. McCall."

"How did you get it into the safe house? I searched you when you arrived."

Vlad shrugged. "The young man there. I put it in his pocket when he tackled me, and recovered it later. My men waited picked us up as soon as we crossed the border."

Near the door, Mark actually groaned. "No matter," McCall called to him. "It could have been any one of us."

Vlad smirked. "Now gather the weapons, and search them all," he directed. "You and you." He indicated two of his men. "The rest of you, stay sharp."

Damn, Robert swore to himself. He'd hoped to distract Vlad's attention from hold-out weapons. Dismissing that, he moved on to formulating his next plan. Then something utterly unexpected, and utterly devastating, happened.

Lily Romanov began to cry.

McCall glanced sharply at her. "Romanov, stop it," he snapped.

Lily came further unglued. Her tears turned to sobs. Damn it, McCall thought desperately, damn it, damn it, stop. Don't show weakness to that man, don't show fear. He turned back to Vlad.

The wolf was out, rampant and hungry.

Vlad was staring at the woman with open lust. He'd been attracted to her before, but now, with a gun in his hand and her weeping openly in fear, it had become something else. Something beyond sexual, into violence and power. The thing that she feared most had become the very thing she was inciting.

"Come here," Vlad said.

Lily shook her head and tucked it down, refusing to look at him. Vlad raised the gun in McCall's direction. "Come here or I will shoot him dead."

"Go ahead, shoot me," Robert answered calmly. His mind, though, was turning frantically. He could not allow this to happen. He could not allow this young woman to be raped again, not while he lived. Could not. But trying to take this group on, in this particular circumstance, was likely to get them all killed.

Was it better, to be dead? Was it better for her?

Vlad cocked the gun.

"No!" Lily cried. She wiped her eyes clumsily on her sleeve and took a step towards him. Stumbled, and fell to her knees. She sobbed anew.

"Come here," Vlad ordered again. She looked up, moved to stand. "No," he snapped. "On your knees. Crawl."

Her breath came in great gasping heaves now. Enough, Robert thought. It was intolerable. He would not allow it. He would not. He coiled, his hands flexing.

Mickey coughed.

McCall glanced across the loose circle at him. His young friend was nearly directly behind Vlad, with his hands over his head, a Mack 10 against his side, one of Vlad's men much too close. But his eyes were calm, as always. As Robert watched, his right hand closed into a soft fist. The signal for 'all hold'.

Hold? Robert thought wildly. Hold while Vlad grabs up this girl and rapes her in front of us all?

Kostmayer shifted his weight to his right foot, then straightened. Then did it again. The henchman unconsciously shifted with him. The net effect was that Mickey was no longer directly behind Vlad, no longer in the line of fire …

The line of fire, Robert thought, and took a breath. Time slowed to a trickle.

Lily crawled, stumbled again, folded over towards the ground. When she came up, she had the Walther in her hands.

As a safety feature, a standard Walther PPK was manufactured so that it would not fire without a clip in place, even with a round in the chamber. It was a feature which had always annoyed Robert, the one thing he did not like about the gun. So he had his weapons modified by a gunsmith in the East Village. This gun had come from Lily, but she'd noted that it was modified to his specifications. The crucial question now, the only question that mattered, was whether she knew what those modifications had been.

Their lives, all their lives and possibly millions more, hung on how well a courier had done her homework.

Lily had the Walther in both hands. A funny, quirky little smile crossed her face, and she squeezed the trigger.

Vlad fell to the ground, a bullet through his heart.

Everybody moved at once. Mickey caught the Mack with one hand, the henchman with the other, and dropped him. McCall turned right, caught the man there, and spun him into the one of his left. There was some gunfire, mostly near the door, but not much, and in a matter of sixty seconds Vlad's men were unconscious, subdued, or dead.

Gustav was still standing in the midst of the battlefield, bewildered and unharmed.

McCall brushed his hands clean. "Well, now. Anybody hurt?"

"I think I am," Mark called.

Robert turned. The young man walked towards them blindly, the blood streaming from his forehead and covering his eyes.

* * *

"Am I going to die?" he asked Lily.

She held Mark's head in her lap, a handkerchief pressed tightly to his forehead. "Sooner or later," she answered sweetly, "but not from this. It's just a scratch. What's known in the trade as a boo-boo."

"Then where'd all the blood come from?"

"Head wounds bleed," Robert told him. He moved Lily's hand and the handkerchief to examine the wound. Now that it had stopped bleeding so profusely, he could see that it was indeed a scratch – a crease, left by a bullet passing at an impossible lucky angle, taking off skin but little flesh. It was not deep enough to require stitches, even. "It's going to leave an interesting scar, though."

"You will get so laid with this thing," Lily promised him, resuming the pressure on the wound. "Bring it to the New York office. They'll be all over you."

"I thought you were really crying," Mark said.

"I was really crying. If you knew how bad a shot I am, you'd have been crying, too."

Kostmayer came over with hot soup. Lily helped the boy sit up, with her hand still pressed to his forehead, and urged him to drink. "I thought we had an understanding, Romanov," Mickey grumbled.

"What about?"

"About never firing a gun unless I was standing behind you, remember? Do you know what this is all over my jacket? I'll give you a hint – it'll never wash out. I'm wearing Vlad's heart on my sleeve."

"Well, if you'd tiptoed a little faster …"

"I was not tiptoeing."

"Technically, he was sidling," Robert offered. "And you did just fine. Could I speak with you a moment, please?"

"Sure." She took the handkerchief away from Mark's forehead and examined the wound again. "It's stopped now. Just don't touch it." She stood up and moved to Robert's side.

"Hey," Mark called. "Are you ever going to tell me what works?"

"What?"

"All this coaching – aren't you going to tell me what line actually works? What would actually get you into bed?"

Lily grinned, a little shyly. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on," Mickey teased. "We're dying to know."

"I will admit, I am curious," McCall joined in.

She sighed. "You guys are all pigs."

"Come on," Mark wheedled. "I need the help."

"There is that," she admitted.

"Just the latest line that worked. Please?"

Romanov blushed, but nodded. "Fine. It was, 'please, will you stay.'"

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Damn," Kostmayer said, "I could have come up with that."

"Yeah, but you didn't."

Robert opened his mouth, then shut it without commenting. "A moment?" he said again. He took Lily by the arm and led her outside.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing. I wanted to be sure you were all right."

Lily looked puzzled. "I'm fine. Why?"

"That was … quite a performance."

She stared at him, then dimpled suddenly. "You bought it. You _bought_ it." She shook her head, amazed. "_You_ bought it."

"I might have been temporarily convinced," Robert admitted grudgingly.

"That's either a huge compliment or a tremendous slap."

"Take it as a compliment," McCall answered uncomfortably. "But are you all right? Really?"

"I'm fine," she assured him again. "What's worrying you?"

"You did just shoot that man through the heart."

"You said I could shoot him."

"Yes, I did. And you probably saved all our lives." He drew her closer. "But however much he deserved it, it is not an easy thing the first time you kill another human being. I want you to know I understand that. I'm here, if you need to talk about it."

Lily smiled gently and moved into his light embrace, for a moment. Then she pulled away. "You are very sweet, Robert. But he wasn't my first."

"Oh." Robert straightened, surprised. "Oh. I'm sorry. I just assumed … well, my mistake. I apologize."

"Nothing to apologize for," she assured him. "It was a reasonable assumption. But I wasn't a virgin when I got here."

McCall studied her, a little embarrassed by his error, a little impressed by her grace. "You really are quite a remarkable young woman, aren't you?"

"So they tell me," Lily agreed. "Can we get out of this dump now?"

"I do think it's time for that, yes."

* * *

They reached Vienna without incident. Shelby's team saw them to the airport, then returned to their station. Roelen's team accompanied them onto the plane. They sat scattered throughout the compartments, watchful as always. Robert and Gustav flew first class; Kostmayer and Roelen watched them from the back of the compartment. The largest problem they encountered was a shortage of mixer on the drink cart.

McCall didn't expect any problems at all once they got to London. Their documents were forged, but expertly so. He approached the customs desk without qualm, with Gustav right behind him. Cleared through with a few basic questions. Turned to wait for his defector.

The customs agent took one look at Gustav's passport, turned, and waved. Four men in black suits descended on the old man. "Mr. Freda? We're taking you into custody."

"But why? I've done nothing wrong. My passport …"

"Your passport is clearly a fake. We believe you are a Yugoslav defector with information vital to our national security. You will come with us, please."

Freda turned, frantic, as they took his arms. "Robert, please …"

McCall looked around quickly. Roelen and another man ahead of him, past Customs already, waiting in the concourse. Mark and the others behind, twenty yards up the ramp. Kostmayer ten feet closer. Romanov at the counter. Everybody tense, waiting, reaching – all their weapons were in their luggage.

Four men, clearly British intelligence, and clearly others waiting.

"Damn it to hell," McCall muttered.

Before he had quite decided, though, Lily Romanov put her right hand in the air above her head and slowly, definitely, closed her fist.

Roelen's men held where they were. Kostmayer, at least, looked to McCall, who reluctantly waved him off. There was nothing to be done, here and now.

The British agents took Gustav away, out a discreet side door.

The customs agent cleared Romanov through with barely a glance.

McCall grabbed her arm and dragged her through the same side door. It led to a drab hallway, which was now empty; the agents and Gustav were gone. "What the blazes have you done?" he demanded, pushing her back against the wall.

Romanov's face went entirely, eerily blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You gave him to the British. You gave Freda away."

"What did you want to do, Robert? Start a firefight with a NATO ally in a civilian airport? When we don't have any weapons? They're our allies, Robert."

"You gave him up!"

"Prove it."

"Don't think I can't," he threatened viciously. He moved closer, crowding her. "I cannot believe that you, you of all people, would betray me like this. How could you do this? Why, Lily?"

She remained impassive, unintimidated. "Assuming that I've done anything, I would have had my reasons."

"Assuming! I know damn well what you did! You gave up my defector! After all we went through to bring him out, you turned him over without so much as batting an eye."

"I trust them," Lily answered. "They're as capable of recovering the warheads as we are."

"Why?" Robert shouted. "Why did you do this?"

She considered him for a long moment with her calm, expressionless face. "Because I will not be a party to providing the government of the United States with nuclear warheads they don't have to account for."

McCall's eyes narrowed. "That's Control talking, isn't it? Isn't it? I might have known he'd betray me, but _you_ …"

"He doesn't know anything about this," Lily said calmly.

"What?"

"It was my idea, my doing. Control had nothing to do with it."

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"

Lily's eyes flashed, though her voice remained calm. "Oh, that's right, I'm just a courier, aren't I? I can't have an original thought, I can't calculate the consequences of actions, I can't foresee results." She leaned toward him, and Robert backed half a step. "Just a courier. Can't stand up to seven weeks of torture and rape. Can't get into a pressure situation without going to pieces. Can't shoot a man dead when I need to. Just a courier. _I_ did this, Robert. I will deny it, will say that I don't know where they got their tip, but I did it. All on my own. Control had nothing to do with it."

McCall stared at her for a long minute. Was it possible? Could she possibly have calculated and planned this? This was treason. Could she have done it on her own?

If anyone could, it was she.

If it was a rogue act, she could probably count on Control to cover for her, if it ever came out …

Robert dismissed the notion. No. She had not gone rogue. She was Control's lover, and his apprentice. "I was a very great fool," he snarled. "I thought you were more than just Control's creature, his puppet. I trusted you. I should have known better. You are nothing but his hand in this. His lackey. He used you to betray me just as surely as if he'd done it himself."

"Tell me about betrayal, Robert," she answered coldly. "Tell me about General Rydecki, who wanted to throw the Communists out of Yugoslavia. He expected help from the Company, didn't he? Until he got his hands on a nuke, and suddenly his help was gone. Exactly how did the Soviets find him, Robert? Exactly how did they kill him?"

"How dare you …"

"Don't lecture me about betrayal. Your hands aren't that clean."

"To prevent a nuclear explosion in Moscow that would have killed millions, and would have started a nuclear war …"

"Which is exactly what _I've_ done, Robert."

"No. All you've done is betray your country and me. You and Control."

Lily simply shook her head, unwilling to argue any further. "I'm sorry, Robert. But Control had nothing to do with this."

Then she brushed past him and walked back through the door.

* * *

Control was still drinking his first cup of coffee when his phone rang. It was the private line, and he knew at once who it would be. "Control," he answered quietly.

"It's Romanov." She was quiet, too. The line beeped its reassuring secure tone. "The British took our defector."

"At the airport?"

"Yes."

"I can't say I'm surprised. We'll file the requisite protests, but I'm sure it won't do any good."

"They were pretty adamant about it."

"Everyone all right?"

"All safe, yes."

"Good. Come home."

She hesitated. "The spooks are willing to let me sit in on Freda's debriefing. At least until the professional diplomats show up on Monday."

Control considered this for a long moment. "Kostmayer can cover it."

"I'd rather stay. I'll send Mickey home."

"I want you home tomorrow."

"Because tomorrow is?"

"June 7th."

There was a long, long pause, with just the ten-second beeps of the secure line. "Lily?" he finally prompted.

"You know too many things," she said, very quietly.

"Come home."

"No. I need to stay here and work."

Control sighed. "Still keep it all to yourself, don't you?"

"I'm trying," she protested. "I am. But not this. This is mine."

They might, Control thought, have had a long, long discussion about that – but not like this, over a trans-Atlantic line, not from offices that might, might be bugged. "Do what you think is best," he finally agreed. "Keep Mickey there with you, or Robert, if you'd rather."

"No," she answered firmly. "I'm sending them home. Besides, Robert still has smoke pouring out of his ears. He's feeling rather betrayed by the change of custody."

"That's not unexpected," Control answered. "But he'll turn on a dime if you tell him you need him."

"I don't need Robert's pity. I don't need yours, either."

The snap in her voice told Control worlds about her mental state. "There's a difference between harboring pity and offering comfort," he said quietly.

"It's a damn fine line," Lily retorted. "I'm sending them home. I'll turn Roelen and the boys loose here until Monday. They need a little play time."

She was trying to change the subject, and Control let her. It was impossible to talk about anything important under these circumstances anyhow. "Roelen and his team loose in London. No chance of an incident there."

"I'll try to keep an eye on them."

Control sat back, tried to relax, tried to keep her talking just for another minute, about anything. "So how was your little field trip with Robert?"

"He's incredibly good. I'm not sure I believe you're better in the field any more."

"I am," Control assured her.

"But he gets on these morality rants that just make me want to smack him."

"I do know that feeling, yes."

They fell into silence for a moment. "I gotta go," Lily finally said. "I'll call you when I'm headed out, unless Gustav comes up with any more surprises."

"Call me tomorrow."

"N-no. I don't think I will. We'll talk about it later. Maybe in a year or so."

Control sighed. "A year is a very long time," he recited.

"Yeah," Lily answered. "And maybe the horse will learn to sing."

He nodded to himself. He had promised her time, hadn't he? Encouraged her to take it. She _was_ trying, struggling, to share her heart with him. He should have expected that the child would be the hardest for her to share. They'd had such a bitter battle over it, and then left things mostly unresolved. It was the deepest of their wounds, and the one she was most reluctant to probe. Maybe, just maybe, the passage of the child's due date would let her soul start to heal. Maybe a year was the right time frame after all.

"As you wish," he said gently, and put down the phone.

A moment later, he picked it up again and called Scott and Becky. He got their answering machine. "It's me," he announced to the tape. "I wanted to let you know that the cabbages are back in safe hands, and your father should be home tomorrow. Sleep well."

* * *

McCall glowered out the window at the darkness. The overnight plane was quiet; beside him, Kostmayer was sleeping, sprawled in his seat. Robert had upgraded them again to first class with a calculated sense of vengeance. He intended to make the Company reimburse him for every last dime.

His anger had gone cold enough to touch, finally.

He'd been allowed to see Gustav before they left. The old man was frightened and confused, and angry at being in custody again. But he was allowed to see his daughter and granddaughter; they were being lodged nearby, comfortably, and were allowed to see him mostly at will. Freda's situation was really not much different than it would have been in the United States, except that different people held him. When the warheads had been recovered, and any other information the old man had was processed, he and his family would be released, brought to the States if they wished.

Grudgingly, McCall had to admit that the reasoning was sound. He should have thought much earlier about the final disposition of the warheads. He might also have come to the conclusion that they were safer in British hands than with the current American administration. He might even have taken the same action. But he had been so focused on the mission, so intent on getting Gustav out alive, that he'd never given it a moment's thought.

It was not the first time that had happened. Throughout his career, McCall had carried out orders with too little questioning, trusting that his superiors had sound and moral justification for his assignments. It was one of the reasons, finally, that he'd chosen retirement.

But to have his mission hijacked, to be undercut by the woman – and yes, he admitted to his own snobbery, by the c_ourier_ – was intolerable. She might have discussed it with him. Control might have told her to talk it over with him …

He had an uneasy notion in his mind, still, that perhaps Control was _not_ behind it. If that was true, if Lily Romanov really had devised and enacted this betrayal all on her own, then she was more impossibly dangerous than Robert had given her credit for. As Control's lover, she had potential access to every secret the Company had. As a courier, she knew every agent in the field. Rules and regulations were all well and good, but things were different in the field; anyone might drop a name or a fact to a trusted courier, if she asked nicely. McCall already knew she could get information out of a stone. If she had truly gone rogue, if this wasn't an isolated incident but the opening gambit of a power play …

Robert sat back, frowning fiercely into the night sky. The woman had more than enough on Control to bring him down. If Control fell, who would replace him, and what did Romanov have on him already?

He shook his head. Too many years in the Company, too much paranoia built up. If she had done this on her own, she had done it for the reasons stated, and no more. She had reason enough not to trust her own government. He did not know a great many things about Lily Romanov – and he was beginning to question those things he did know – but he was certain of this: She loved Control, completely and absolutely.

He had said some bloody hideous things to her at the airport, he reflected. He was not going to apologize for them. He did not apologize to Control, ever, and if she was going to enter the fray at their level, she could bloody well learn to soak up the abuse. Robert didn't think, somehow, that she'd have any problem with that. She'd been completely unimpressed by his anger – again. Her maddeningly expressionless face. Her feelings so remote that he could not possibly touch them. McCall understood exactly what Control had been saying now, about how little he really knew about her. It was unnerving; the two of them were so very good at reading people, and yet this girl eluded their understanding almost completely.

Beside him, Kostmayer snorted and turned in his sleep. Robert glanced at his companion. He'd rather thought, back when both were unattached, that Mickey and Lily might get together. It never happened, and now he could see why. Kostmayer's instinct for self-preservation was much too sharp to let him get involved with a woman as inaccessible as Romanov. Harley Gage wasn't that smart, but he'd learned his lesson, too. Even young Mark, green as he was, had veered off into friendship after the first wave of infatuation.

Robert had made his familiar, habitual mistake with her. He'd assumed that she was what she appeared to be, and he'd assumed the best about her. He'd seen pretty and gentle and taken her at face value, even when she'd proven herself strong and dangerous. That was gone now. This betrayal – of her engineering or of Control's, it did not matter – had changed their friendship irrevocably. They would still be friends, and possibly very good friends indeed. But McCall would never underestimate her again.


	19. Chapter 19

McCall reached his apartment just before midnight, and was annoyed, but not surprised, to find Control waiting for him. "I have," he said coldly, "nothing to say to you."

"I understand that you're angry, Robert." Control stood up and poured his friend a glass of brandy.

"Yes, Control, I am angry. I am very angry. I promised Gustav Freda that I would bring him and his family to the United States. _I _promised, and you broke my word. Again."

"Freda can still come to the United States. Once the warheads are recovered, the British will be happy to turn him over. Although, from what I hear, the daughter may never want to leave Harrods."

"I promised," Robert repeated tersely. "You made me a liar. And that is the smallest of the betrayals this time around, isn't it? If this ever comes out, Control, this treason that you have committed, you can be bloody well sure that I will _not_ allow you to sacrifice the woman."

Control tensed. "Robert, what are you talking about?"

McCall took the brandy from him and set it on the coffee table, refusing to drink it. "Treason, Control, is still punishable by death in this country. You arranged for a foreign government to take custody of a defector who had information vital to your own government's interest. By any weaseled definition you come up with, I would say that still constitutes treason."

"Treason to whom, Robert? To the administration or the moment, or to my country?"

"Oh, yes, Control, let's have the justification now."

"You want justification? Try this. There are seven nuclear warheads out there, concealed and portable. Say we brought Gustav here and he gave us all seven locations. But only four or five of the warheads could be located. The rest must have been found while he was in prison. And then next year, maybe just before the election, one of the warheads detonates in Bangladesh or Moscow or Tel Aviv or New York City. Some terrorist group is blamed, and even though they deny it and no intelligence source can confirm it, we can use the attack to take any action necessary to protect our own nation. Can you see that, Robert?"

"It was not your decision to make," McCall snapped.

"I wish that were true," Control sighed. "But someone had to make it, didn't they? The British will recover the warheads – all of them – and will be accountable for them. The _world_ is safer because of that decision. If Gustav got his feelings hurt, and if you did, then I'm sorry for that. But it had to be done."

McCall glared at him. "If it ever comes to light, this decision of yours, you can rest assured I will repeat those exact words in the defense of Lily Romanov."

"What's Lily got to do with it?"

"Oh, don't, Control. Don't pretend that you don't know she's prepared to take the bullet for this. Don't pretend that you haven't asked her to say she took this action independent of any directive from you."

"What?"

"Lily told me, and will tell anyone else who asks, that you had nothing to do with it, that she contacted British intelligence on her own, and that she takes full responsibility."

Control stared at him. "That's ridiculous. No one would believe her."

"I did, Control, until I had time to think it through. Someone who did not know you might believe her. If she keeps telling that story, she could well face a firing squad for it. And I will not, _will not_ allow that. If this story ever comes out, if there's ever an investigation of any kind, you can rely on the knowledge that I will bury you before I let her take the fall."

"Robert, how can you think I'd let that happen? How can you think I'd sacrifice Lily?"

"I have known you a long, long time, Control. I think you would sacrifice anyone in your own defense."

"I would never allow her to be punished for my actions."

"And why should I believe that, Control? You betray everyone who cares about you."

"Not Lily!" Control exploded. "Lily is my life."

McCall stared at him. His friend's words slowly, slowly penetrated through his anger.

"I could no more give her up," Control continued, "than I could give up breathing. She is everything to me. She is as precious to me as … as Manon was to you."

Robert's stare continued for another beat. Then he leaned down to retrieve his brandy and drank a sip. "Then don't let her sacrifice herself," he growled.

"I won't," Control assured him. "I don't think this will ever come out, but I promise you, I will not let her be hurt by it."

"Good." McCall drank again. "Good."

Control went and refilled his own glass slowly, letting the calm settled. "'Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln,'" he finally quipped, "'how was the theater?'"

"It went well, I think," Robert answered, grudgingly allowing the truce. "We had a rough moment or two, but by and large, better than we had any right to expect. Harley Gage wants his job back, and you ought to give it to him, whatever happened with his last job. Something about a woman, I'm sure."

"He refused to assassinate her."

"Oh." This caught Robert a little by surprise; he'd assumed Harley lost his job over something much less noble. "Roelen seems very competent. His team is young, but they're coming together. Kostmayer is Kostmayer, probably the best you have now. And Lily … you're wasting her talents, you know. She'd be a perfectly fine covert op."

Control shook his head. "She hasn't got the patience for it, and she can't shoot straight."

"She can shoot straight enough when she needs to," Robert answered. "She's the one who shot Vlad Nagy. Clever girl. Lies nearly as well as you do." He sighed. "I'm afraid I was a bit patronizing with her. I tried to comfort her, I didn't realized she'd ever killed a man before."

"Hmmm?"

"She was very gracious about it, of course. That's her long suit, isn't it? Being gracious. But you're quite right about all the things she doesn't say. For all I know, she considers me a complete idiot."

"She doesn't," Control assured him. He was still pondering the earlier comment, but somehow it seemed best not to pursue it. "She's very fond of you. A bit of doting is acceptable."

Robert went to the window and looked out on the quieting city. Now that his anger was gone, he was deeply tired. "She is like Manon, isn't she? Her spirit, her strength." For a moment, just a moment, he was angry again, that Control had never told him about Manon's child, that he had lost so many years. Things might have been so different … he sighed. There was no point; it was long over and gone. The night felt cold and empty. "Don't make my mistake, Control. Don't let her go."

There was no answer, but his friend came in silence and refilled his drink.

* * *

"Annie? You awake?" Kostmayer stopped in the doorway of her apartment and called softly. There were a couple lights on, but she wasn't expecting him.

"Mickey?" she called. "That you?"

"How many other guys have keys?" he called back.

"Well, only six or seven. I'll be right out."

There was splashing, the sound of a tub draining, and then Anne Keller was in his arms, soaking wet under her bathrobe. She smelled like jasmine and kissed him with great delight. "You should have called, I would have picked you up."

"McCall and I came in together. I let him pay for the cab." Mickey held her very tightly, reveling in the feel of her body against his. Her kisses were so familiar, and yet brand new every time, and he wanted very much just to throw her over his shoulder and march her off to bed.

He didn't, though he kissed her thoroughly before he spoke again. "Sweetie, we've got to talk."

Anne's eyes darkened. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Robert's okay?"

"Yeah. It's not about the mission, I promise. That went fine. Well, mostly fine. It's about us."

"Oh. Should I make some coffee?"

"If you want."

She slid out of his arms and tightened her robe. "It's her, isn't it? The girl you went to rescue?"

"Lily?" Mickey answered in surprise. "No. Well, sorta. Something she said. We were talking about the baby, our baby. And she asked if his dying was what kept us together, or what kept us apart."

Anne stared at him. "And what did you tell her?"

"I told her I didn't know." There was pain in Mickey's eyes now, and he saw it in Anne's, too. "I don't know, Annie. But I think that's the answer we need. We keep coming together and fighting and falling apart and coming back together. And it's all about him still, isn't it?"

She drew back a step or two. "Maybe it is."

"I love you, Anne. I will always love you. But if we're only trying so hard to make this work because of something that happened all those years ago …"

"Do you think we are?" she asked, pain edging her voice.

"I don't know," Mickey repeated. "I don't know, and I don't think you do." He turned and looked toward her wall of portraits, toward the irresistible face of a boy who was about to be killed by a sniper. "You want to go back to Belfast. You've wanted to go for six months. Why haven't you gone?"

Anne hedged. "Things have come up, other offers, the book tour. I'll go soon."

"You know I don't want you to go."

"I know."

Mickey turned back to her. "If we broke up tonight, for good, how soon would you be on a plane?"

"I wouldn't …"

"Anne."

She sighed. "By Monday."

"You stay here because I keep you here. And yet I go running off every time Control snaps his fingers. How is that fair, Annie? How long can you keep doing it before you start to resent it?"

"I don't resent it," Anne protested.

"Not even a little?"

She hesitated, then shrugged. "A little."

Kostmayer squared his shoulders, went closer and took her hands. "Do you know that I got you pregnant on purpose so that you wouldn't leave me?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

She swallowed hard, finally nodded. "I … figured as much."

"I hate myself for that. For being that selfish. I almost killed you, I almost destroyed your life. I almost took that," he gestured broadly to the wall of photos, "away from you. I hate myself for that. Do you understand that?"

Anne's eyes filled with tears. "You don't have to …"

"I won't do it again," Mickey vowed. "I won't get any further into that old pattern. If we have to break up so that you can do what you want with your life, then that's what we have to do. I _won't _keep you here just because I'm afraid of losing you. I'm not that young and stupid any more."

The tears fell down her cheeks. Anne moved swiftly, grabbed Mickey and kissed him as hard as she could. "Oh, God, I love you," she murmured.

He nodded, his lips all over her face, tasting her tears, tasting her lips. "And you're going to Belfast, aren't you?"

"Next week." She hesitated, drew back just a little. "Will you be here when I get back?"

Mickey shrugged. "You know how my life is. But I'll try to be. Or I'll catch up with you somewhere. I want to be with you, Annie. More than anything. But I don't want to trap you again."

"Then we'll find a way," she promised. "We'll find a way to make it work."

"We'll try," Mickey answered. Then their lips came together, and words were lost.

* * *

He was at Enchanted Valley, and it was winter. McCall at his side, their breath smoky clouds in the air, their guns in their hands. Reznick above him, taunting him, the cars of the sky ride moving, Lily's outline motionless in the distance and he knew she was going to die. Gunfire, movement, Reznick dead at his feet, the cars still coming, no way to stop them. Robert hurling him to the ground and the explosion, the shock of heat and the pelting shower of wood and metal, smoke, and Lily was dead, was dead …

Control wrenched himself awake, out of the nightmare and back into his bedroom. He lay very still in the darkness, panting, feeling the sweat of his fear dry, trembling with new cold. He sat up and shook his head, hard. It had been so real again.

But she was not dead. Lily had survived; Kostmayer had rescued her and she was not dead, not then, not now. She was safe in London, and in a few days she would be safe with him. He took a deep breath. Just a dream. Just another damn dream.

He looked at the clock. It was three in the morning. He could have a drink and try to go back to sleep, or he could make coffee and go to the office. He was afraid to go back to sleep.

As he padded to the kitchen and switched on the espresso maker, he remembered the date. It was June 7th; approximately the day Lily's child should have been born if she had not miscarried. He could feel her suddenly, halfway around the world, not sleeping. He could feel her grief. There was nothing he could do to ease that grief; she'd made it clear she didn't even want to talk to him today.

In one sense, he understood that. Pity, she'd said, was the thing she loathed most, and he believed her. On the other hand, as her lover, it rankled him that she wouldn't take comfort from him. Maybe next year, she'd said. Maybe.

She was making a genuine effort to share with him, but there were so many secrets and shadows to her still, so much that he did not understand. So many mysteries.

The espresso maker hissed the last of its steam. Control poured the dark brew into a small china cup and sipped the scalding liquid. What had Robert said, the night before, that he'd meant to pursue later? The shooting. Robert hadn't realized she'd ever killed a man before. Control took another sip. Frankly, he hadn't, either. He'd been through her service record once and hadn't noticed. It would have stood out, in a courier's jacket. Wouldn't it?

Maybe she'd lied to McCall, in an effort to avoid his pity. That would be like her. But Control wasn't sure even she could lie to Robert that convincingly. Maybe it had been before she came to the Company – although, again, that would have stood out on her background check. Even something buried in a juvenile record would have been discovered by the vetting process. So what in the world was she talking about?

Maybe he'd just missed something in the files.

He knew he hadn't. When his affair with Lily Romanov began, Control had harbored some concerns that she was a double agent. He'd been through her file with a fine-toothed comb, looking for proof one way or the other. There was nothing there about killing a man, ever.

Unless something had happened in Nicaragua. Something that she hadn't told any of them …

That was a possibility. Control reflected on her first night back in New York, her remarks about the vengeance that should have been hers. He'd brushed her off, in part because of arrogance – it was damn easy for someone who's never killed another human being to think it was a simple thing. She spoke of it so readily that he'd been sure she hadn't known what she was talking about. Maybe he'd been dead wrong there, too.

The espresso had cooled enough to drink. If it had been in Nicaragua, Control decided, the only place he hadn't looked was at Tillman's records. The Company doctor had initially refused the release the full records, hiding Lily's pregnancy until she could tell Control herself. They'd managed to keep it out of general circulation, even after he knew. But there was no reason to conceal the records from Control now. Maybe there was nothing there, but it was worth a look.

Three-fifteen a.m. Tillman was not likely to be very cooperative at this hour. It would have to wait a bit. Control set up the espresso pot again and set it brewing, then went to take a shower.

* * *

Four-thirty, the city just barely stirring to life, and Control stood in Lily's apartment, his hands in his pockets, glaring at the damn red trunk.

It sat obstinately against the wall, unimpressed by his glare, just as its owner would have been.

Control considered going through it again, but he couldn't think of any justification beyond his own curiosity. That didn't seem like enough. It didn't matter that she wouldn't mind; it still felt wrong. Besides, he already knew what would be in it. Mostly clothes, a few books, a very few personal effects. Nothing more.

He sighed and turned away. The living room seemed empty and strange, the way only abandoned rooms do. Scott had left the uncomfortable low couch, two cheap wood bookshelves, a coffee table that had been battered even before it came to live here, an end table, and a lamp. Everything was spotlessly clean – courtesy of Robert's miracle-working housekeeper – and still smelled faintly of Lysol and even more faintly of smoke. But nothing here reminded him of Lily. Nothing except the anonymous trunk was hers.

Control felt a vague chill and moved to the kitchen. It was similarly spotless and barren. He opened a cupboard at random. Scott's plastic cups, from every fast-food restaurant in the city, had been sorted by size and neatly stacked.

He moved down into the hall. The bathroom smelled even more strongly of Lysol, and also of vinyl – new shower curtain, white, new towels, dark green. One hung on the towel bar and reached all the way to the floor; the others were still store-folded, neatly stacked on the counter. Control touched one approvingly. She'd gone top dollar; the towels were soft and thick.

The bedroom – the bed itself – finally revealed a bit of its new owner's personality. It was neatly made with the comforter she'd brought into the living room when he was there, with four thick pillows at its head, in cases that matched the comforter, and four smaller pillows of sunny gold. The bed was not only inviting, it was downright sumptuous. Control nodded to himself. Leave it to Lily to start there.

He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. Then he lay back, feeling a bit like he was trespassing. It made no sense; if Lily had been there, she would not have minded. Still he felt awkward, like an intruder. He rolled onto his side, toward where she would have slept. On a hunch, he drew the bottom pillow out of the pile and sniffed it. As he'd hoped, it smelled ever so faintly of the woman. He clutched it to him and breathed deeper. His body relaxed, his mind drifted over her. "Lily," he murmured, "my Lily."

He did not sleep, but he rested for a long while, watching the quiet room grow brighter, listening to the living city stumble into day. It was still hellishly early by the standards of normal mortals when he sat up and reassembled the pillows. In the process, he slid his hand under the pillow he'd been resting on and encountered magazines. He froze for a moment, considering. It was Lily's habit to read in bed, and to stick whatever she was reading under the spare pillow. He'd fallen back onto her bed once and jammed half of "The Hobbit" into his ear. But it was always paperbacks; he didn't recall encountering magazines before. He felt like he was intruding again, and he didn't actually want to know what she was reading here alone. Erotica? Why not? They'd read aloud to each other in bed, and he'd been away at the office all week before she left. It could be worse than that, he realized – she could have taken to reading "Cosmopolitan" or some such trash. He should just take his hand back and go away.

He didn't, of course. Carefully, he drew the magazines out onto the comforter. The thicker one was a furniture catalogue. The other two were 'Better Homes and Gardens' and 'Interior Designs.' All three had dog-eared pages throughout them.

Idly, relieved, Control flipped through the pages. Her taste, not unexpectedly, ran to solid colors and comfort rather than to a particular style. She had fifteen different couches marked; and there were a handful of other pages that had been folded down and back. Tucked into the furniture book were little cards with paint samples. Blues, greens, golds.

He'd asked her to make a home for herself. She was evidently taking his request very seriously.

Chuckling to himself, Control replaced the magazines and the pillows. He stood, put his shoes on, and opened the closet. Inside, there were unexpected boxes. Two were sets of dishes, black, octagonal, servings for four each. The third was an antique silver samovar, in pieces. The fourth held linens – kitchen towels, potholders, and such. Control actually grinned at his discovery. He moved the boxes aside and located the floorboard that concealed Robert's safe. Lily had given him the combination; he twirled it open swiftly, from memory. The safe was perhaps half-full of documents and a fat envelope that he knew contained cash. He reached into his jacket and dropped in another set of documents – Lily's – and then the emerald, in its box.

When he'd replaced everything, Control looked around the bedroom in satisfaction. It had a long way to go, but it felt a little more like a home to him now.

* * *

"I'm not releasing the report," Tillman growled over the phone.

"I wasn't asking you, Doug," Control answered patiently.

"So, what? I should just mail of to you? Or fax it, so everybody in the office can have a look? You want it, you come and get it."

"Doctor …" Control was talking to dead air; Tillman had hung up on him.

He replaced the receiver slowly and sat back, considering. It was still early, and the office was quiet. The Pakistan issue had been resolved, for now, with surprisingly little bloodshed. He'd told the tie boys – Lily's name for them – to take some extra time off. They were exhausted, sick of each other's company, and growing combative. Frankly, Control thought that if he had to spend any more time with them, he was going to smack heads together. They'd filed numerous complaints to the British government about Gustav Freda, with expected non-results. Things were, for the moment, quiet in the world.

Control was much too restless to stay in the office. Especially today.

He took his jacket, dropped his coffee cup off in the break room, and went to find Simms. The younger man was, predictably, working quietly in his office. "I'm going out," he announced. "I'll be gone all day. Maybe tomorrow, too. I have my pager."

The younger man asked no questions, just nodded. "I'll call you if anything comes up."

"Good."

Control went to the airport.

* * *

He'd been reading the report for nearly an hour when Tillman came back. "I know what you're up to, Control," the old doctor said gruffly. "It's not going to work."

"Hmmm?" Control asked, closing the file. There was nothing in there that he hadn't known. Details, but he'd had the outline right. Nothing about killing anyone; nothing about anyone dying. He could try to get the psychiatric counselor's notes, but he knew that would be damn hard. He'd flown to Miami on a fool's errand, and gotten nothing except a day out of the office.

"You think," Tillman accused, "that if you sit here long enough, making sighing noises and being patient, that I'll crack. I was in this business when you were in short pants, boy, and I'm telling you, it won't work."

"I haven't asked you anything, Doctor," Control said evenly.

"Damn straight. And you won't, because you know it won't do you any good. You leave Lily and the others out of this. It was all my doing, and I take full responsibility.

"Do you, now." Control wondered what in the world the old man was talking about. "Why don't you tell me about it, then?"

"Bah! You really think you're clever. You don't even know what to ask. You're just fishing."

"Lily and the others?" Control prompted.

"I'd think you'd be on their side, Control. They're your people. If you can't protect them, the least you can do is look away when they get back some of their own. I can't believe he sent you, of all people. I can't believe you came. You'll get nothing here, Control."

"Ah, no. Of course not, Doug." Control sent up a silent appeal for help: Lily, what in the world are you up to now? And how did you get Tillman involved? "But someone had to investigate, and I thought it would be better if it were me. So I _can_ cover up for them, if I need to."

Tillman bought it. "It won't hurt him permanently," the doctor promised. "No lasting impairment. Just inconvenience and worry. It's the least we can do for him. Think of it as a prank, Control, and let it go."

_Jason_, Control realized suddenly. Jason, the coffee, Lily, Tillman … and the others? What others? What were they up to?

Jason had been distracted since the coffee incident. Subdued, even. Much less a pain in the ass than usual. Control had always known and respected that the couriers were a dangerous bunch to mess with. Tillman, too, with his fiercely protective manner towards his patients. It wouldn't take much to convince Doug Tillman to prank Jason …

"You're sure it won't harm him?" Control asked carefully.

"Positive. Six months of unnecessary testing, he'll be good as new."

It was wrong, Control knew, and he should put a stop to it here and now. However much he detested Jason Masur personally, he was technically his superior and Control had a duty to uphold his office and protect his person. He stood up. "All right," he said firmly. "Let me know if I can help."

Tillman chuckled, then laughed out loud. "I think we've got it handled, but I'll let you know."

"And I haven't been here today," Control continued.

"Of course not. You're never here." Tillman opened his desk drawer and rummaged. "You headed back north? Take this with you. They were supposed to give it to the girl, but the TRIC misfiled it."

Control took the thick folder from him. It was Lily's missing personnel file.


	20. Chapter 20

He sat at the end of the bar in the first-class lounge in the Atlanta airport, nursing an Irish coffee, waiting for his connecting plane. He'd decided to take the layover rather than waiting eight hours for a direct flight. He'd found nothing in Miami, and felt more than a bit foolish for being there.

He'd bought a paperback at the Miami airport, but it was wretchedly bad and he'd left it on the plane. He'd bought international papers in Atlanta and read the front sections, then pitched them, too. Which left him nothing to read now except Lily's personnel file, which he'd already read in detail, years before.

Still, it was better than sitting here doing nothing.

This wasn't only her Company record, which would have been routinely in the file. The shrink had pulled every piece of paper they had on the girl, including her original application and her training records. Control flipped the file to the very back, to her application. It was typed, very precisely, with every question answered completely. College in the East, full scholarship, one senior semester in Europe. B+ average throughout, though she'd gotten a D in chemistry. Four languages then; she'd acquired three more since. She'd gone to public high school in Charleston for two years, then to a private school on a merit scholarship. She'd lived at the Davis Memorial Home for Children since middle school. Control had the uneasy notion that it was named for Jefferson Davis. Her housemother had written one of her letters of recommendation. A sweet letter, in elegant longhand, a bit shaky. To read the letter, the girl had been a saint. Which had somehow not stopped her from getting into the Company.

Behind that, copies of her passport and birth certificate. The passport was from her high school years, and had perhaps the worst picture of a pretty girl he'd ever seen. The birth certificate was from Tennessee. It was a bad photocopy of a bad fax, impossibly blurred. Control frowned at the faint copy. The signatures were too scrawled to be discernable.

He continued to leaf idly through the file, mostly to keep the bartender at bay. This was idiocy, all of it. If he wanted to know who Lily had killed – if she even had – he only had to ask her. She'd tell him, he was sure, though it might well be of those wrenching tear-it-out-of-the-soul episodes. He shook his head. He'd asked her to share her past with him, and she was trying, but it was so, so hard for her, and such a slow process.

Well, Control reflected, it wasn't as if he'd been exactly forthcoming about his past, either.

Something about the birth certificate.

Frowning, Control turned back to it. Something about the signatures. What in the world was tickling him about this? It was just a sheet of paper, almost unreadable.

Deliberately unreadable?

Something about the signatures.

Control sat back suddenly, staring at the form. He pulled it out and set it on the counter, then ruffled through until he found the saint letter from the orphanage lady. Mrs. Nabakowski, her name was. Her elegant, shaky handwriting was so distinctive.

Mrs. Nabakowski had signed the physician's line on the birth certificate.

He might have taken them back to New York for analysis and absolute confirmation, but Control knew. His own eye was practiced enough to pick out the loops in the 'e', the funny tail on the 'w'. There was no doubt in his mind. The housemother from South Carolina had signed the birth certificate from Tennessee.

The birth certificate was undoubtedly a fake.

With the single pull of a thread, with a single forged signature, Lily's Romanov's identity unraveled before his eyes.

Control sat very still for a very long moment. His mouth was dry; the vein behind his eye throbbed. Lily was … not Lily? Who the hell was she? Could she, after all this time, could she truly be a double agent? Had he been that great a fool? But then how, why …

He was over-reacting. It could be so much simpler than that. An orphan, with somehow no way to get an accurate birth certificate, but she'd need one to enter school, to enroll in college, and a helpful lady at an orphanage, never thinking that the child would one day join the intelligence community …

Because everything else looked authentic. Everything from the orphanage on had been checked out. You couldn't plant a mole as a child; she hadn't been out of the country long enough to be trained or turned, and in any case …

"Get you another?"

Control jumped; he hadn't seen the bartender approaching. "Uh, no, no, thanks." He left a bill on the bar, grabbed up the file, and went to the ticket desk.

* * *

By the time Control stepped out of the rental car, he was much calmer. He'd had time to think it through, on the short flight to South Carolina, and he was convinced that the false birth certificate was a blip and nothing more. Still, he was here, and he knew himself well enough to know that it would chew at him until he was certain.

He didn't want to go back to the office, anyhow.

He looked around. The building was old, but very neat. It had started its life as a Victorian home; the addition on the back had probably been added in the 50's or 60's. The yard was tidily mowed, with several flowerbeds and trees. A low, cast-iron fence surrounded it. Above the wide front porch was a small sign that read 'Davis Memorial Home for Children'.

He adjusted his bow tie – yellow with discreet pink dots - and buttoned his sport coat, which was half a size too tight. He glanced down at his scuffed brown shoes and nodded in satisfaction. He looked, he knew, completely unthreatening. A nerd intimidated no one.

Clutching his clipboard, he climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. There was a thunder of feet, and a teenage boy opened the door. "Yeah?"

"Uh, yes, hello," Control said officiously. "I'm with American Property and Liability Insurance Company and I just need to …"

"Come on in," the boy said. Inside, he added, "Wait here." Then he went down the hallway. "Ms. Stedman! Insurance guy!"

Ms. Stedman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Thank you, Jeff." The boy left, and she came to the end of the hall. She was an unremarkable woman of middle years, with calm, intelligent eyes. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yes," Control said. He shuffled the clipboard awkwardly to his left hand and stuck his right one out. "I'm Jack Deaver, with American Property and Liability Insurance Company."

She shook his hand uncertainly. "I'm sorry, but all our insurance is purchased through the state …"

"Oh, yes, I know. My company, American Property, has been asked to offer a quote for the upcoming term, and so of course we have to inspect all the covered properties."

"I haven't gotten any notification about that."

"Oh. Oh. You should have gotten this memo." He fumbled with the clipboard again and found a badly photocopied fax on the state's letterhead. He sent a silent blessing to his abundantly resourceful secretary. "This is my copy, but if you need one, I'm sure I could have one sent to you …"

"No, this is fine." She read the document quickly. "What is it you need to inspect?"

"I just need to take a quick look around, count the rooms and verify fire sprinklers, alarms, things like that. It will only take about ten minutes. I'm so sorry, I thought they'd advise you that I was coming."

"It's no problem," Ms. Stedman said with a sigh. "They never tell me anything. Let me just finish up in the kitchen and then I'll show you around."

"We can start in the kitchen, if you like," Control said agreeably.

"Right this way, then."

Control followed her, wondering again what the hell he was doing here. So this was Lily's childhood home. What of it? He looked around the kitchen where she'd spent her teen years. It was a kitchen, more institutional than most, with a 10-gallon pan of potatoes boiling on the stove. Beyond it, in the dining room, four teens lounged at the table with stacks of schoolbooks. "Study!" Stedman barked as they passed through. There was a living room, with a largish TV, and a game room with a ping-pong table, a video game system, and a cheap stereo. Upstairs there were six bedrooms, all improbably neat, each with two beds.

At the foot of each bed was a red footlocker. Each had a combination lock, and every one of them was locked.

Control peered out the window of the last bedroom. Behind the home was the back of a large brick building. "What is that?" he asked.

"The library," Ms. Stedman told her. She nodded to the north. "The day care is next door. I suppose you'll need to inspect that, too."

He nodded. "You must be close to the beach here."

"About ten blocks," she confirmed. "Why?"

"Oh, flood hazard notation." He made a show of checking things off on the clipboard. "Well, I think that's about everything."

"You don't need to see the basement?"

"Oh, oh, yes. Thank you, I would have wandered off without that." He adjusted his tie. "I'm used to working in the office, I don't get out in the field much."

She nodded, satisfied with this answer.

He inspected the basement with her, then made a bit of a show of inspecting the garage and yard before he got back in the car. He went to the library and looked around; it was just a library, nothing very exceptional. The beach was exactly as Lily had described it, largely empty on the weekday. He wandered back to the car and leaned on the trunk, impatiently tugged his tie loose. Whatever he was looking for – and he still had no idea what that was – he wasn't finding it here. The rooms she'd lived in, the library she'd loved, the beach, the streets – none of it held any trace of Lily now.

The smart thing would be to drive back to the airport, turn in the rental car, and get himself back to New York. She might be trying to reach him; he might miss her call. Why was he chasing Lily's past, when she was in his present? What was driving this curiosity, this quest? One fake signature. He could have had one of the bright boys track it down, easily. This was madness, an utter waste of time.

He knew she wouldn't call him, not today. He knew he didn't want to go back to New York and be alone with his thoughts. He needed this quest today. He needed to be doing something, however senseless. He needed to not consider what day it was.

He needed to not remember that this was the day Lily's child should have been born. Lily's child, that he had been determined to make his own.

He shook his head vigorously. No, he was not going to dwell on that. He was not. He was going to continue his quest, at least one more step.

* * *

His next stop was a very modest, one-story bungalow on the north side of the city. The woman who answered the door – after a considerable delay – was probably eighty years old, bent over a walker, heavy, gray-haired, and with the kindest eyes Control had ever encountered.

"Yes?"

"Oh. Ms. Nabakowski?"

"Missus," she corrected kindly.

He tugged at the tie again. "Oh, yes, ma'am. My name is Jack Deaver. I'm with the American Life Insurance Company. We have a new policy holder, and I'm doing some, er, background verification. Our client was a resident of the Davis Memorial Home for Children."

"Oh, I retired from there years ago."

"Yes, ma'am, I know, but you see …"

"Now just wait, now. I won't have you standing on the stoop all day, come in, come in. Have a glass of sweet tea."

Control followed her into the house. She was kind but quite firm in her instructions, and he couldn't help but notice that she spoke to him rather like a child. Habit, he thought; despite her age, she was a woman who was accustomed to having her orders obeyed. He did not attempt to defy her, and shortly found himself settled at the kitchen table with a tall glass of teeth-achingly sweet tea and a plate of homemade cookies.

"Now, then, that's better," she said with satisfaction. "Who did you want to ask me about?"

"Oh." He consulted his clipboard. "Her name is, um, Romanov. Lily Romanov."

The old woman looked away from him for just a moment, busied her hands with her own glass. "No, I don't think I remember that name. There were so many children at the home. I was there for over forty years, you know. Started the day they opened."

Control pulled a picture out of his stack of papers. "This is her. Miss Romanov."

The old woman looked at it closely. "No, I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"Are you sure? Her forms said that she had lived there for a number of years. If you could just look again."

She studied him for a moment. "Do you know who Julia Childs is?"

"The TV chef?" he asked in surprise.

"I believe she was the one who thought up that American Life Insurance Company line. Back in her OSS days."

Slowly, Control smiled. "Yes, ma'am, I believe you may be right." He reached into his jacket and produced an ID wallet. "Did you know her? Julia?"

Mrs. Nabakowski took the ID and studied it closely. "I met her once." She handed the wallet back. "This is still a fake."

"Yes, ma'am." He could not help noticing, as she reached across the table, the blue numbers tattooed on her wrist.

"What is it you want, young man?"

Control paused. He could not remember the last time anyone had called him 'young man', and he felt as if whatever he said, she was going to see right through. "Lily Romanov works for me," he said, determined to stay as close to the truth as possible. "I'm trying to find out more about her background."

"Is she in trouble?"

"No. She's up for a promotion." That might be true, Control realized, if Simms had his way. "But she needs a higher security clearance, and therefore we're running a secondary background check."

The old woman studied him for a long minute. Then she shrugged. "There's nothing I can tell you, I'm afraid. That man that came years ago, I told him all there was to know about her. I'm sorry, I would help you if I could, but there is nothing more."

Control believed her, actually. "All right, then. Just a quick review and I'll be on my way. Lily came to the home when she was eleven?"

"Yes."

"She had no next of kin?"

The woman hesitated. "She said that her parents were dead. We ran a missing person check, but no one had reported her missing. Whether she was an orphan or a runaway, no one ever came looking for her."

"She stayed with you until she was eighteen?"

"Yes."

"No one ever tried to adopt her? No foster homes?"

Mrs. Nabakowski shook her head. "Children her age are hard to place. People want to adopt little babies, not pre-teens." She considered for a moment. "Some children come to Davis desperate for a real family, a real home. Others just want a safe place to finish growing up. She was never interested in being adopted."

Control nodded. "What was she like?" He took one of the cookies.

"Smart, tidy, organized. Helpful. She always helped out with the little children next door, or in the kitchen, whatever needed doing. Or else she was at the library, or the beach. I remember one summer, she'd stop at the library, check out two or three books, walk down to the beach and read them, then turn them in on the way home. I never saw a child so crazy for books." She nodded thoughtfully. "She'd go out of her way to do little special things for people. Sweet things. But she never wanted anybody to notice. She kept to herself a lot. Never any trouble to anybody."

The woman stood and refilled Control's glass for him. "I always hoped she'd stay here in town. Maybe be a teacher or something. But once she'd been to Paris, there was no hope of that."

"Paris?" Control asked.

"The high school French Club took a class trip. One of the local businesses paid Lily's way - they're real good about supporting our kids. It was only ten days, but as soon as she came back I knew she wouldn't be happy here." She sat back down. "I suppose she travels a great deal now?"

"Yes. Do you hear from her often?"

"No. Every Christmas she sends a card, and a check for the home. Sometimes a little letter. But there's nothing here for her. I don't see how this helps you any."

"I'm just doing the paperwork, ma'am. I have to fill in all the blanks."

Mrs. Nabakowski took the spoon out of the sugar bowl and cracked him sharply across the knuckles.

Control snatched his hand back. "What was that for?"

"That was for lying again, young man. It's a bad habit with you, isn't it? You lie even when there's no need to."

"I do," he admitted, rubbing his fingers ruefully. "I'm sorry. Do you know anything about Lily before she came here?"

"Not a thing," the old woman answered.

Control sat back and stared at her. That answer, he knew, had been a lie, too. He wanted to call her on it, but the look in her terribly kind eyes said that he would never, never find out what was behind it. Reluctantly, he stood up. "Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Nabakowski. You've been very helpful. I can let myself out."

She stood up anyhow, stooping to wrap the remaining cookies in a napkin for him. "Take these. You need to eat more."

"Thank you."

At the door, she touched his arm. "Wherever she came from before here, it wasn't good. She was only a child. It can't possibly matter now."

"No," Control agreed sincerely. "It doesn't matter now at all." On impulse, he leaned and kissed her on the cheek. "Good-bye. And thank you."

* * *

He walked through the airport with his ticket in his hand. It was nearly three hours before his flight left for New York. He had time to have a leisurely meal, time to check in at the office, time to find a book at the gift shop. It was time to go back home.

The birth certificate had been exactly what he'd expected; faked by the orphanage so that she could get on with her life. Faked for a child, with no sinister intent at all. Having met Mrs. Nabakowski in person, he was quite sure of that.

Whatever else he'd been looking for, he hadn't found it in South Carolina. All he'd gained was one more clue to his Lily: that Paris had been her gateway city. Once she'd been there, once she'd seen the bigger world, she would never be content in one place again.

Paris had been the first city Control had ever visited on his own as a young man. The experience – and the city – had changed him fundamentally. Had gotten into his blood. Had shaped who he'd become. It struck a chord in him, that the same city, decades later, had shaped his love.

There was nothing more to be gained here. He walked down the quiet concourse slowly, unhurried. Over the gravelly PA system, there was an announcement. A flight for Nashville was boarding.

Black River, Tennessee, where her birth certificate had been issued, was less than two hours' drive from Nashville.

But he wasn't going to Black River. He was going back to New York. So Control told himself, firmly and repeatedly, even after the plane had pulled away from the gate. Only when they were in flight, headed decidedly north and west, rather than north and east, did he allow himself to acknowledge that he was not going home just yet.


	21. Chapter 21

Control frowned at the ledger book. It was hand-written, half in fading pencil, in four or five different hands, none of them neat. But nothing he found was even remotely close to what he was looking for.

"You don't look happy, sir," the short, round man behind the counter said. "Something I can help with?"

"Oh. Maybe." Control twisted his yellow bow tie. "I'm looking for a birth record, and I can't seem to find it."

The man eased the ledger book back across the counter. "You got a birth date?"

"August 15, 1960."

"Well, you got the right book there. What's the name?"

"Romanov. Lily Romanov."

The man scanned the page quickly. "Nope, I don't see it here."

"Me, either," Control said, trying to keep his exasperation out of his voice.

"Let's look before and after. Sometimes babies come in the middle of the night, they don't get recorded quite right."

Control had already scanned the days before and after the 15th, but he waited while the clerk did the same. "Nope. Don't see it." The man closed the book. "You got a city?"

"Black River."

The man moved down the counter to a shelf full of badly mixed books and files. "Black River, 1960 …oh, well, that might be your problem then. The twister."

"The twister."

"Uh-huh. Fall of 1960. I remember it because I was in the National Guard then and they called us up to help the clean up. Big tornado came through, wiped out half the town. Four people dead."

"That's terrible."

"Could have been a lot worse. Homecoming dance was that night, and the damn twister just cut right around the high school. Course, then it went and slammed into the hospital."

Control frowned. "What's that got to do with the birth records?"

"Well, see, the records are kept at the hospital. Even the home birth ones, they report to the hospital – a'course they don't do much of that any more, except in emergencies." He waved his hand, indicated the ledger books. "Then every so often the hospitals sends their records up here for recording. Nowadays they have forms, send 'em up every week, but back then they only came up when they had more than a dozen. Place like Black River, that could have been six months or more. And a'course, the tornado wiped out all those records."

"So … how would a person born then get a birth certificate?"

"Well … we aren't supposed to do it, but … if the doctor or the midwife called up here and asked, we'd just probably make one up for the person, send it out to the doctor for a signature. Like I said, there can't be more than a dozen or so. You're not gonna repeat that, though, are you? There's probably some big court procedure we're supposed to go through."

Control shook his head. "No, doesn't matter any to me. Thanks for your help."

"Doesn't seem like I was much help."

* * *

He got back in the car and drove, southwest from the country seat toward Black River. It was pretty country, he thought as he drove. Hilly and green, two-lane roads, lots of curves. The houses were spread out and every one had its own barn. There were pastures of sheep and cows and a scattering of horses. The heartland, he mused.

It all made him itch for his concrete city.

The road met up with a stream and ran beside it, crossing it with bridges now and then. Black River, the signs at the bridges proclaimed, though Control could barely credit this as a river. It was ten feet wide and shallow enough to wade across. There might be trout to be had there; Kostmayer would know. As he drove further, the stream widened and flattened, and tiny white rapids appeared. As he rounded a corner, Control found himself at the edge of a tiny town, which the green and white sign told him was White Rushin.

Control swerved the car off the road and parked on the shoulder at the foot of the sign.

White Rushin. Named after the river's rapids, no doubt. Not White Russian, the way he'd always heard it in his mind, but White Rushin. Lily Romanov, his White Russian. He'd always assumed that she'd had somewhat cruel but history-minded parents. But that wasn't her name at all, at least not the name she was born with. She'd given it to herself, he'd almost bet on that now. Her forays to the library; why had he assumed she'd only been reading fiction? White Rushin, indeed. He ought to be damn glad she hadn't named herself Anastasia.

He sat back and laughed. You know so much about other people, he thought, and you don't even know your lover's real name. It was funny, and also bitter.

The ghost of Becky Baker's warning came back to him. 'Don't chase the White Russian. It's darker than you know, and it will break your heart.' Control sobered, looking at the sign again. Becky was right. He could feel in his gut that he should turn the car around and go back to New York. He did not want to know what he was going to learn in Black River. But he'd come too far for that now. Knowing that she'd lied about her name, he had to know all of it.

Reluctantly, apprehensive, he pulled back onto the road.

Black River was the next town down the road. It was a little larger than White Rushin, with about ten blocks worth of downtown, a couple square miles of residential area, four stoplights. Control drove through the whole town, looking around. Somehow he'd expected it to be more like Oz. It was just a town. There was a funny little park at the north end of town, with a granite monument in the center of it, and a big, casual cemetery at the sound end.

Control found a likely looking diner and went in. He sat at the counter, ordered coffee and the breakfast special – served all day – and studied his clipboard, frowning and tsk'ing over it. As expected, the waitress couldn't resist. "You look like you got problems, friend."

He glanced up at her and smiled. She was a plumpish woman, tall, maybe his age. "Oh. Oh, no, not really. I just, I'm having trouble finding the records I need."

This answer confused her. "There's a record store up in Shallow Creek," she said uncertainly.

Control looked confused back, then laughed. "No, no, not that kind of record. I'm, oh, I'm with American Life Insurance Company. We had a policy holder who is unfortunately deceased now, and I'm trying to locate his beneficiary, but I'm just not having any luck."

"Oh." The waitress looked interested. "Is it a lot of money?"

"It's ten thousand dollars," Control answered. Her expression told him that was the right amount; more would have been too unlikely, less too uninteresting. "Not a huge amount to some, I suppose, but I'm sure Miss, er, Miss Romanov would like to have it."

"Romanov?"

"Yes. Is there anyone by that name here? Maybe I could locate a relative?"

"Noooo, not that I know of. Romanov, huh? Sounds Russian."

"Yes." Control suppressed a sudden urge to bang his head on the counter. "Yes, I think it is."

"We got a lot of Polish families here. Not many Russian. I don't think I can help."

He shook his head. "Well, thank you anyhow. Maybe I can check the hospital for records."

"There's no hospital here, honey. Nearest one's up the road fifteen miles, in River Bend."

Who the hell names these towns, Control thought gruffly. "Oh." He peered at his clipboard again. "Oh, it says here she was born in Black River."

"There used to be a hospital. The twister blew it down years and years ago."

"Oh."

The kitchen bell rang, and the waitress moved away, then came back with a plate laden with eggs, sausage, bacon, and hashbrowns. "I'll get your toast," she said, and did.

Control ate while the waitress fussed with the other customers. She came back to warm up his coffee. "Is there maybe a Shepherd family?" he asked, consulting the blurred birth certificate. "That's the mother's maiden name."

"Shepherd? Sure, there was Shepherds here. Couple of 'em. They been gone for years, though. Last ones died in the fire."

He cocked his head. "The fire? You had a tornado _and_ a fire?"

"Oh, the fire was later. Way later. You come into town from the north? See that park there, with the monument in the middle? That's where the fire was. There used to be a gas station. Burned to the ground. The tanks went up, you could see the fireball all the way to White Rushin, they say. Melted the paint off the fire truck, it was so hot. Cracked the concrete in the road."

"And the Shepherds were killed."

"Not just them. Seven men, altogether, and the little girl. Damn shame about the girl."

"Were they firemen?"

"Huh? No, no. Just guys. They were gambling there at the station."

Control looked at her quizzically. "Gambling?"

"Oh, honey, don't get me started, I'll chew your ear off."

He shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere. Good hash browns."

"They are, aren't they? Well, if you want the whole story – that Shepherd boy, what was his name? Donny, Donny Shepherd. He wasn't ever good for anything – I know, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. So we'll just say he wasn't any better than he should have been, right? He hitched up with a little girl named Maggie Krezinski. One of them big Polish families, she came from. Anyhow, she's fifteen, comes up pregnant, so Donny marries her. He's not much older, not much smarter, either. Maggie's uncle – that Maggie, you'd think it was short for Margaret, but it wasn't either, it was short for Magnolia, I don't know what got into her mother that day, too much ether, I'd say – anyhow, Maggie's uncle owns the gas station, and he sets them up there. Donny runs it, and they live in a little place out back. Not much of a place, just two rooms, had to use the bathroom at the station. I wouldn't let my dogs live there. But then he never thought they were gonna stay there, you know? Thought Donny'd get himself together and get them a real home. But he never did."

Control nodded thoughtfully, chewing a strip of bacon.

"Then Donny gets this bright idea. Probably the only idea he ever had in his life. The gas station had these bays, you know, for working on cars? Only Donny didn't know nothin' about cars, and anyhow, everyone in these parts does their own repairs. So Donny closes the bays off and puts a still in there."

"A still?"

"Moonshine. Now it's kinda illegal, unless it's just for personal consumption – and let me tell you, between Donny and Maggie, it pretty much was. But you could pull on up to the pump, get a fill-up and get a fill-up, if you know what I mean. Should've made them a ton of money, except they drank so much of the profits."

"What about the child?"

"Maggie had a little girl. Now what was her name? Some kind of flower name, too."

"Lily?" Control supplied hopefully.

"No, that wasn't it. It was … oh, now, what was it? Betty! Betty Ann! Come out here a second."

A younger woman came out of the kitchen. She had a strong resemblance to the waitress. "This is my niece, Betty Ann. She went to school with her. Betty, what was that girl's name? The Shepherd girl?"

The younger woman was surprised, and a little hurt. "What're you talking about _her_ for?"

"I was telling him about the fire. But I can't remember her name for the life of me."

"Rose," Betty Ann said, coolly and with certainty. "Her name was Rose."

"Rose, that's it. I knew it was a flower. And how old was she in the fire? Not very old, was she?"

The younger woman grew chillier still. "She was ten. Maybe eleven. We both were." She turned and stomped back into the kitchen.

The waitress shook her head. "It was a shock to the kids, you know. I don't think Betty ever quite got over it. Oh, I forgot your biscuits, why didn't you say something?"

She trotted off, returned with a plate of biscuits and a tureen of gravy. Control could almost hear his arteries hardening, but it smelled too good to resist. "So the gas station burned down," he prompted gently. "What happened to the mother?"

"Maggie? Oh, she was already dead by then. Driving drunk. She hit that old oak tree in the cemetery. We all joked how convenient it was. 'Course that wasn't very funny, but there it is. After that, Donny drank even more. And that poor little girl, she was all on her own. Maggie's family didn't have any use for her. And then the fire, and they were all dead. Her and her daddy and those six other men. Of course, they didn't find any bodies, that fire was so hot. Just a handful of little white pieces Doc said were bones. They could've buried them in a shoe box. Maybe they did, for all I know."

"So how did you know who was dead?"

The waitress shrugged. "We counted heads, figured out who was missing."

Another customer called, and the waitress moved away. Control ate another bite of the biscuits and gravy, but his appetite was gone now. He left a twenty on the counter and slipped out.

* * *

He'd decided to walk down to the park and take a look at the monument, but in the alley just next to the diner was a little bench, and on it the younger woman, Betty Ann, sat smoking a cigarette with angry emphasis. On a hunch, Control stopped and sat down beside her. "It must have been hard, losing your friend," he said without introduction.

"She wasn't my friend," Betty Ann snarled at him. "She didn't have any friends."

"Why not?"

The woman took a vicious drag on the cigarette. "Because she was poor and we were all better than she was." She shook her head. "We were mean little bitches, every one of us."

Control sat back, took a cigar out and lit it – with the lighter Lily had given to him – and waited. At length, the woman finished her smoke, lit another one, and continued. "All her clothes were second-hand, from the church charity. So I'd have a favorite sweater, and when I outgrew it, a week later she'd be wearing it. Like that. We all made fun of her. She never seemed to care. It was like we didn't matter. She just read her books and ignored us. The teachers all liked her 'cause she was quiet and smart and always had her stuff done, so of course we hated her even more for that."

She took a long, slow drag. "After her mom got killed, Rose started coming to school without any lunch. She'd just sit in the corner and read her book and ignore us while we ate. My mom found out and she started making me take an extra sandwich for her every day. My friends all teased me about it. And then Rose started coming to my house every weekend, Saturday afternoons. She'd help my mom clean up the kitchen, do the baking, whatever. I thought she was working off the sandwiches, like she was too proud just to take them. It made me mad. And then after the fire …" The woman crushed out the half-burned cigarette. "I said something to my mom, didn't she feel bad for making that poor girl work off those sandwiches every week. And my mom said, Rose hadn't been working to pay them off, she just didn't have anywhere else to go on Saturdays after the library closed, and she didn't want to go home 'cause of her dad. I felt awful."

"You still do," Control observed.

"Yeah, I guess I do." She looked at him sideways. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

He shrugged. "Because I'm a good listener."

"I guess so." She sighed. "Thing was – she was smarter than me, smarter than any of us, and we all knew it. She probably could have made something of herself, you know?" She lit a third cigarette. "For whatever it's worth, last week there was this homeless guy outside the grocery store, just passing through, I guess, not a local. I bought him lunch and … and gave him a pair of my husband's socks. Because he didn't have any. But that don't make up for the way I treated Rose. The way we all did." Betty Ann shrugged. "The only good thing is, wherever she is, she's probably better off."

Control reached over and patted her hand. "I'm sure she is," he assured her.

* * *

He walked down to the monument and stared at it. Seven names and dates, all men in their twenties and thirties. The girl's name was at the bottom, separated from them, carved larger and more ornately. Donald Shepherd had been twenty-seven when he died. His daughter, Rose, had been ten. She'd been born on April 10, 1961. They'd all died on August 15, 1971.

Control stared at the date for a long, long time.

Lily's birthday, of course, was August 15.

She'd covered her tracks well. Very, very well. Extraordinarily well, for a child. But she'd clung to a few tiny details. A few scant ironies. It was bitter and tragic, and Control wished he'd never come to Black River.

He headed back for Nashville, but couldn't resist one last stop. In for a dollar, he reasoned, might as well rob the bank.

He stood in the cemetery and gazed at the headstone. The men had a single stone, not very big, but for a lost child the town had gone all out. The headstone was large, white, with elaborate angels carved on each side of Rose Shepherd's name. Most of you ignored her while she was living, he thought bitterly, but you went top dollar once she was dead, even though there was no body to bury.

He closed his eyes, feeling the truth of Becky's words. The truth was darker than he knew, and it did indeed break his heart.

With relief, he climbed in the car and headed back for the airport, back to New York and a world that made sense to him.

* * *

McCall set his single bag of groceries down on the counter and pushed the button on his answering machine. Three messages, the light told him. The first one was a straight hang-up, no sound at all. The second had about ten seconds of hesitation before the caller hung up. Robert frowned at the machine as he finished putting things away. It could be nothing, a telemarketer, or it could be someone in trouble who was hesitant to talk to an anonymous tape.

The third call had a similar pause, but then came an exasperated sigh. "Oh, this is ridiculous," a woman's voice said. "Robert, it's Mira Kalinich. Becky gave me your number and I don't usually … oh, hell, who am I kidding, I do it all the time. The tall ships are coming into the harbor this week, you've probably seen them on TV, those restorations? The university's giving a private reception on Monday and I wondered if you'd like to go. If you wouldn't that's completely fine, you don't even have to call me back, but if you would, let me know."

The tape clicked off. McCall stood with his hands on the counter, staring at the machine in puzzled amusement. So Becky had given the woman his number, had she? A bit of matchmaking from his daughter-to-be? Robert normally resisted arranged dates strenuously. But he'd met Mira, and liked her – he thought. The state of her apartment still perplexed him, but her writing evidenced a much more orderly mind than her living quarters. He liked her history books. He liked her.

He liked the fact that the first word she'd ever said to him was 'balls'. It seemed to portend well.

The tall ships intrigued him, too.

Grinning self-consciously, Robert opened the drawer and retrieved Mira's card.

* * *

Lily called the office Sunday afternoon, from somewhere that sounded distinctly like a pub. "We got all seven locations," she reported swiftly. "They recovered three so far. I have extensive notes."

"Good," Control answered. "Where are you?"

"Uh … I'm not sure. Some bar. Hey, where are we, anyhow?"

"Bloomsbury," someone shouted back.

"Bloomsbury. I think I'm still in London."

"Are you drunk?"

"Nope. But Harley and me are totally kicking MI-5's ass at darts."

Control sighed. "Nice of you to think to call me."

She laughed. "Yeah. Something about the ass kicking reminded me. Anything else you need me to do here?"

"No. Come home."

"Flight leaves at midnight," she answered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Control put down the phone gently and turned towards his window. Tomorrow she'd be home. She hadn't been gone that long; it only felt like forever. But tomorrow she'd be home.

He knew so much more about her now than he had when she'd left. He was going to have to be careful not to let it show. He understood now why he was allowed to buy her extravagances but not necessities – why she could accept a five-figure emerald but not a sofa. Why pity was the emotion she hated the most. Why she so valued the small kindnesses she took to the ops in the field. Most of all, he understood why she kept her pain so tightly gripped, why she didn't show it or share it to anyone – and how much it cost her to start to share it with him.

He understood his Lily now, which made the trip worthwhile. But she didn't need to know about it. She didn't ever need to know where he'd been or whom he'd talked to.

With a wry grin, he turned back to his computer and set about expunging his travel records.

* * *

Control strode back from his meeting, irritated that it had gone so long. But he had to admit, they'd gotten a lot accomplished. "Messages?" he barked as he approached his office.

Sue held up a stack. "Nothing urgent."

He snagged them without breaking stride, went into his office and sat down, flipping absently through the little pink sheets without interest. His secretary was, as always, right; there was nothing here that wouldn't wait, and half he wouldn't even bother to answer. Good. His eyes strayed to his in-box, which was inevitably more full than when he left. The very top item had a familiar set of initials scrawled on the cover sheet.

Frowning, he snatched up the report and went to the open doorway. "Romanov's here?"

"She dropped off her report," the secretary reported. "Said she'd be at home if you have any questions."

"When I say I want an agent to report to me," Control barked, "I mean I want them to report in person."

"You were in a meeting," she reminded him. To his darkening scowl, she quickly added, "I'll get her back in." She reached for the phone.

"Never mind!" Control snapped. "I'll call her if I need her."

He stalked back into the office and sat down with the report. For a moment he had to pretend to read it. Damn it, she must have known he'd want to see her, if only for a minute or two … and yes, he had been in a meeting, she might have been waiting around for hours …

He sighed, glanced at his watch. Three hours, at least, before he could get out of here without raising eyebrows. And certainly he couldn't leave here and go straight to her. Add another two hours …

He could have Sue call, have her come in – for what?

In great bad humor, he turned to reading the report.


	22. Chapter 22

It was, in fact, after sundown before he got to Lily's apartment. He let himself in and glanced around, not liking what he saw. Nothing had changed. The damn red trunk sat against the wall in the living room. Still, he had promised to be patient, and Lily had only been home one day.

"Lily?" Control called softly. "You here?" Most of the lights were on; he'd assumed she was home, but perhaps she was sleeping.

Footsteps in the bedroom, in the hall, and then she stood in the doorway, staring at him. She looked terrible. Her face was pale and blank, but her eyes were puffy and red. She'd been crying, hard. "Lily? What's happened?"

She came into the room, but stayed well away from him.

"What's wrong?" he asked. He took a step toward her. She took a step back. "Damn," he swore aloud. Whatever had happened, they were right back at the start, the scene eerily similar to that horrible night at the hotel, when he'd so nearly driven her mad. She had the same expression in her eyes, that miserable blend of anger and fear.

She was afraid of him.

Afraid of _him_.

He would not, Control vowed, repeat the mistakes he'd made that night. He made himself plant his feet and stop chasing her. "Lily, what's wrong? What's happened?"

His mind spun through the possibilities. Something on her way home? Since she'd called him? Or was it that she had lied to Robert, that she had never killed before, and that was catching up to her? Or remembering the due date of the lost child? Or a combination of all of it? But then, why was she afraid of him? He hadn't done anything; she should be coming to him for comfort, not fleeing in terror.

She just stared at him.

"Lily?" he asked again, quietly. "Give me a hint, love."

She drew a deep, slow breath. "Have a nice weekend?" she asked, her voice full of venom.

Control's eyes narrowed. She wasn't crying from pain, but from fury. "Uneventful. How about you?"

Lily shook her head. "I would have thought you'd find it fascinating," she continued, "to actually be walking on my grave."

He looked away from her, cursing silently. "The old woman called you."

"She looks after me," she answered bitterly. "Was this my punishment for not coming home when you told me to?"

"Lily, it was nothing. I found your fake birth certificate and I got curious. It was nothing more than that. But you're right to be angry. I shouldn't have pried. I apologize."

"Well. That makes it all right then."

Control shook his head. Behind the anger in her voice was an ocean of fear. "Lily, I don't care who you were back there. None of that matters now."

This time she looked away. "It all matters. Or haven't you put the pieces together?" She snapped back, her mouth open. "You haven't figured it out yet," she said in amazement. "That's why you're here. You didn't get it all."

"I'm here because I love you." He took the chance to cover the space between them, stopped just short of touching her. "And I'm telling you, Lily, it doesn't matter."

"If you think it doesn't matter," she answered slowly, "then you don't understand at all."

"Then explain it to me," Control snapped. "Tell me what I'm not getting. But it won't make any difference. Whoever you were then has nothing to do with who you are now. Nothing."

Fear and grief overtook the anger in her eyes, and they filled with tears. She spun and moved away from him again. "I didn't want you to know. Not now, at least not now. I wanted forever to last more than five weeks."

"I love you, Lily. I will always love you. Nothing can change that."

She turned back and studied him for a long moment. She wiped her eyes, and seemed to gather her wits. Some decision came to her, and making it let her regain her composure. "Wait here," she said, and went back to the bedroom.

A drawer opened and closed, and she returned. "Take this," she said, her hand outstretched.

Control's heart sank when he saw the jeweler's box. "No."

"Take it," Lily growled.

"It's yours. I will never take it back."

"Take it and we'll talk."

"No."

"Then get out. Now."

Control bristled. There was nothing he hated more than ultimatums, and his first response was to take her up on it and just leave. But there were still tears drying on her cheeks. Perhaps, just this once, it was better to give a little, to do whatever it took to continue a dialogue. Reluctantly, he took the box from her. Their hands trembled where they touched. "When we're done talking," he promised, dropping it into his jacket pocket, "I'm giving it back."

Lily shook her head sadly, but didn't argue. "What do you know and what do you think you know?"

"I don't need to know any more than I do. You don't have to tell me anything."

"I have to tell you everything," she answered sadly. "It's the only way, now. I wish you didn't have to know, God, I wish you didn't, but you do."

Control sat on the couch – thinly cushioned, uncomfortable – and rubbed his forehead. "All right," he finally said. "I know that a girl named Rose Shepherd was born in Black River, Tennessee, on April 10, 1961. I know that she was an only child, that her father ran a gas station, and that the family lived in what is kindly described as a shack. I know that the father had a moonshine still in the garage. I know that both he and the mother were alcoholics, and that the mother was killed while driving drunk. I know that the next year Rose's father and six other men were killed in a gasoline explosion in the garage, possibly started by the still. And I know that Rose Shepherd was also presumed killed in the explosion. Which was a damn shame, because everyone considered her a bright child with actual potential."

He studied her for a moment. Lily was still standing, very calm now, very still. So far, he had it right. "I know that shortly thereafter, a girl named Lily Romanov appeared in a runaway shelter in Charleston, South Carolina – two states away. She claimed to have no family. She adjusted well to institutional life in a group home. She went to college on a full scholarship. She came to work for the Company. And all of her paperwork checks out, except one birth certificate. She was born in 1960, you see, a year before Rose Shepherd, the year that a tornado wiped out all the records in her hometown. And she was born on August 15, the same date, coincidentally, that Rose Shepherd died. How am I doing?"

"Splendidly," Lily answered. "Go on."

Control shifted. "That's what I know. What I think I know is this: First, obviously, that you were Rose Shepherd. That when you were ten years old you found an unexpected opportunity to escape from a family situation that was at best neglectful and at worst abusive. That you did so with tremendous intelligence and ingenuity. That with a little help from the old woman, you managed to create a new identity for yourself – an identity good enough to fly through Company review."

"The Company doesn't look at grade-school records," Lily reported. "By the time I got to high school it was already established."

He nodded. "I think – I guess – that you wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to cover this past if you didn't feel in some way responsible for your father's death."

"I am responsible for his death."

"You were ten years old," Control answered. "Whatever happened, however the fire started, was an accident. You can't blame yourself. And there's no point in feeling guilty for surviving."

Lily studied him for a long moment. "Survivor's guilt? Is that as dark as you can imagine?"

Control felt a clutch at his heart. Becky had said, weeks ago, 'Don't chase the White Russian. It's darker than you can imagine.' "What is it, then?"

She considered for another moment. "Go look out the window."

Startled, Control stood and peered past the edge of the shade at the street below. "What am I looking for?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing. You're just not looking at me." He turned. She was at his shoulder. "Please." Her calm was maddening.

"Lily, you don't have to tell me."

"I do. But I can't if you're looking at me. Please."

"Lily." On impulse, he put his hand behind her neck and kissed her, hard.

She kissed him back. It felt like she was kissing him goodbye. Then she straightened. "Please."

Control turned and looked out the window again.

"What you know, what you've guessed, is right," Lily began, moving away from him. "I was Rose Shepherd. After my mother died, my father took to gambling while he drank. They played at the gas station – it was close to the still. That was okay, it left me alone in the shack, I could read, do my homework, whatever. I wasn't supposed to go over to the station. But then …"

Her voice caught, for the first time displaying emotion, and Control turned to her. "Lily, you don't …"

"Don't." She gestured. Obedient, in dread, he turned back to the window. Her story resumed, her voice flat. "It was hot, August, and it was a Sunday. He closed the station at five and they started playing cards and drinking. About sundown I heard the ice cream truck. You know ice cream trucks? They drive around playing calliope music, and you can chase them down and get a fudge pop for a quarter? Well, it used to be a quarter. And it was hot. And I wanted one. So I went over to the station, even though I wasn't supposed to, just to ask for a quarter. To get an ice cream."

Control felt himself go sick and cold, already seeing where this story was going. He didn't want to know. Damn it, Becky had warned him. He should have listened, should have left it alone. More than anything he wanted to turn and take Lily in her arms and stop her, before he had to hear it all. But he'd started it, hadn't he? His punishment, for prying where he absolutely should not have, was to stand here with his back to her and listen to the whole brutal truth.

It's darker than you know, and it will break your heart.

"So," Lily went on, still in monotone, "there were six of them, plus my father, and they were drunk and they were gambling, and my father was losing. Out of cash. And they were riding him, the way guys do, you know, about him not having anything left to put up. He didn't take teasing well. And I … I just wanted a quarter for ice cream."

"Lily …"

"Don't. You know the phrase, don't get yourself in a jackpot? Add it to your big list of things never to say to me. Because he had … one more thing to gamble. At first they were just joking about it, they were all drunk, but … he thought he had a great hand. And then he lost."

Control grabbed onto the window frame, squeezed it just as hard as he could to keep from turning around.

Her voice drifted to his left as she moved. "The guy who won that first hand, his name was Timmy. Skinny little guy, worked over at the cardboard factory. Had a boy a year younger than me in school." She barely hesitated. "The rest of them watched. And then they went back to playing cards. And of course the girl went back into the pot."

He would have turned then, but her hand was on his shoulder, from behind, holding him. Her voice stayed absolutely flat, cold. "The third hand my father won. But he wouldn't, even though they rode him about it, he said it wasn't right …" Her voice cracked and recovered again. "But the rest of them took their turns as they won, the other six. And then … they went back to playing cards."

The hand tightened, made sure he would stay there, and then the contact went away. Her voice moved back across the room. "And my father's luck turned," Lily continued, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "He won then, he cleaned them out. By then they were really drunk, and he … he _kicked_ me." There was more outrage at the kick than there had been at all that went before. "He kicked me, and he told me to take the money back to the shack so none of them could steal it when he passed out. And he told me to get myself cleaned up."

"Lily …"

"Not done. Not quite." She moved closer again. "I took the money. I got cleaned up, changed my clothes. Took all the money I could find, took my duffle bag, took my books. And I …"

She was at his shoulder again, and if he'd turned he could have caught her in his arms, but he made himself be still.

The voice went flatter, colder. "I padlocked the station from the outside. I took the nozzle from the pump and I braced it open with that little lever. I put a match to it. And then I walked away."

Control felt all the air go out of his lungs. Felt his knees go shaky. "You were a child, you were …"

"I knew what I was doing," Lily answered, still flat. "I let those men burn to death. I _made_ them burn to death."

Finally, finally, she let him turn. He reached out one hand, took her arm firmly. "Did you think I'd blame you for that? If I had been there, I would have killed them for you."

Her eyes were moving, searching his face for – what? "Still don't get it, do you?"

"You killed them, I understand. But …"

She leaned closer, her eyes never leaving his for an instant. "I don't regret it," she said, very firmly. "If I had to do it again today, I would."

"Did you think _I_ would condemn you for that? Me, of all people?"

The answer was a long, long time in coming, and in the silence his Lily returned: The ice melted from her eyes, turned to grief and loss; the steel faded from her voice. She looked, by the time she spoke again, profoundly sad and terribly young. "No," she answered very softly. "I knew you'd … you'd know why." Her grief turned too real, and tears trailed down her face. "I would have told you, some day. When I was ready." With aching regret, she added, "But I didn't want you to know yet."

He drew her closer, brushed the tears with his fingertips, but there were more in their place. "Why, Lily? Didn't you trust me?"

Lily shook her head. "When you told me about Becky, how she forgave that man … you had so much admiration for her, so much respect." Her voice was freighted now with sorrow. "That was the first time I ever regretted what I did. I didn't want to be her any more, didn't want to be Rose. I wanted to be the Lily that you thought I was. At least for a little while, I wanted to be the woman who was intelligent and resourceful and strong, I wanted to be the woman worthy of outrageous emeralds, I want to be the Lily you loved, and not … and not the psychopathic vengeful cracker child."

"But you are my Lily," Control swore. "None of this changes who you are now. Rose Shepherd died in a horrible tragedy years ago, she's dead and buried in Tennessee, and it has nothing to do with us now."

More tears, silent. "That's not true."

"It is true."

Lily sighed shakily. "The night in the hotel, the night I did this." She reached up and touched his chin, the scar where she'd bitten through his lower lip in a moment of madness. "I would have killed you."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters," Lily insisted. "It matters because I could not stop myself. I wanted to, I would have died of regret, and I knew I'd die of regret, I knew what I was doing and I couldn't … I couldn't stop. That same rage, it's not dead and buried, it's still there."

"There were some awfully extenuating circumstances that night," Control reminded her.

She shook her head. "I couldn't stop. I loved you at that moment more than my own life, and if it wasn't for your skill, your training, I would have killed you." Her voice rose toward panic.

"Shhh," Control soothed. "Lily, look at me. I'm here now, aren't I? I'm not dead. I'm right here." Her fingers traced across the scar again, ice cold. He caught her hands, tried to warm them with his. "I have never blamed you for what happened that night, never for a minute. It was entirely my responsibility."

"It wasn't … "

"Shhh. Listen to me. You broke that night because I broke you." He hurried over her protests. "I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, but I … you were so stubborn and so distant, and I was so angry and so selfish … I swear I didn't mean to, Lily, but I couldn't stop – like you couldn't stop – I had to know that I could touch some part of you that they couldn't. I had to make you connect with _me_ again, somehow." He looked away for an instant. "I regret it, every day. But it wasn't you. It wasn't your fault."

Lily stared at him, her face going still again. "What?"

Control sighed. "I'm sorry, Lily. I truly am."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Please," she said, very softly, "please go."

"What?"

He felt her shiver. "Please. Go. Now."

"Lily …"

He tried to draw her closer, but she stiffened, pulled away. "Please," she said, still unbearably quiet, "please, go."

"Why? So you can go hide under the bed?" He tried to keep it light, but his hurt sounded in his voice. "Lily, please …"

"You broke me," she said, stunned. "When I was _that_ fragile, when I needed to trust you that much …" She broke off, turned away. "I can't do this again. Please, please, just go."

If there had been any anger left in her, Control thought, if there had been some rage to argue against, he would have stayed and fought. But she was so beaten, so broken. Again. She wanted to hide. He couldn't blame her. In all of this, if all she asked for was a little time, how could he deny her? "I'll go," he said, softly. "If that's what you want."

Lily wrapped her arms around herself, turned her back to him, and didn't answer.

He went to the door. "I love you, Lily," he called back.

She turned, slowly, and the rage was there again, unexpectedly bare on her face. "And you betray everything you love, don't you?"

"Lily …"

"Go," she cried. "Please, just go."

Control went.


	23. Chapter 23

Another night, another season, and Control was on the street again. In the fall he'd been running, blind with grief and fury, running to her, defenseless. Now it was spring, and he was walking, calmly, deliberately, away from her, tight as a guitar string, and more dangerous than he had ever been in his life. Let a mugger cross his path. Or a third world assassin. Or a bureaucrat. Let them come. He'd welcome the diversion.

Sent away again, by Lily in tears. Sent out, dismissed. As if he were nothing more than a naughty schoolboy, sent out to cool his heels and think about what he'd done. Who the hell did she think she was, how dare she!

But it wouldn't have helped to stay, Control told himself honestly. He'd have shouted and pleaded and cajoled and argued, and she'd have drawn further and further into herself, into the weeping broken little ball on the floor she'd been last fall. She'd have shut him out completely, retreated into the shell she'd been building since before she could talk, her protection against her drunken parents, her hateful schoolmates, against those men, against Santoro. Her carefully constructed shell that let her survive, until he convinced her to come out and join the world again.

So that he could drive a stake through her heart.

Control paused on the corner, keeping close to the building, out of the streetlamp's pool, and lit a cigar. Then he walked on, slowly, thinking, going nowhere in particular.

Knowing the trauma, finally, he truly knew the woman. Everything about her was clear now; every action had an attributable motive. You learned early, he thought, that sex was power, and you never let that lesson go. Once you got past your fear, and you did that early on, you used it to rule your world. Not in high school, probably, but in Paris, perhaps? And then in college. You knew how to handle the boys, you knew how to get your way. Poor Harley – Control could not recall ever feeling sorry for Harley Gage before, but he did now – Harley thought he was the big wolf, didn't he? You were barely out the front gate of the Farm and there he was, baying at your heels, and you took him on. You never for a minute believed his pledges of love; you just wanted to see if you could handle a true wolf. And you did, didn't you, my Lily? You left him asleep with a grenade trussed up to his privates, and the poor man is afraid of you to this day. He wasn't much of a challenge, was he? But me …

Control paused, his eyes narrowing at a small gang of teenagers coming towards him on the dark sidewalk. Something in his posture, something in his eyes, made them decide to cross the street before they crowded him. Satisfied, Control walked on.

It wasn't Reznick who dared you to sleep with me, Lily, he thought. You dared yourself, because I was the biggest wolf you'd ever met. You wanted to see if a man like me was within your reach, within your capabilities to conquer. And I was, wasn't I? That first night, when I seduced you and turned you out, you saw my lust and my fear of the consequences. You got the last word in, and you knew you had me. And the next day, at breakfast, when I came back for more – you knew then that you'd won, didn't you? You knew you had me, and you knew you could get rid of me with a whisper and a threat – or cut me off at the knees. You knew, and I knew. And neither of us would admit it.

That first week in Budapest, Control mused. She must have felt so safe there, so completely in control of the situation, that she'd been able to let her guard down. That week had been positively debauched. Lily had deleted the word 'no' from her vocabulary and replaced it with 'more'. More, she said, and more he gave her. It wasn't only her, but him, too – they'd both reveled in the freedom their utterly uncommitted relationship gave them.

You could have me, he thought, or not have me, knowing that I could make no demands and stake no claim to you. And when I sent you away, you were hurt and angry, but you weren't surprised, were you? We had both always known it would end that way.

It was more than sex that had shaped Lily, though. She had gone through her whole adult life with a complete lack of fear. What should she fear, with her body safe in the ground in Tennessee? She was already dead, and nothing worse – as far as she could imagine – could ever happen to her. She'd told Control she'd never been afraid of dying and he'd dismissed it as bravado, but it was quite literally true. She had nothing to fear. Her trunk was neatly packed and her headstone carved with angels. Why shouldn't she try the impossible missions? Even men like Kostmayer, like McCall, like Control himself, killers all, why should she fear them? She was a killer herself, and in her mind a killer far worse than they. She'd killed her father and gotten away with it. So what should she fear from them?

With a sigh, Control realized too how she'd gotten to him in Budapest. For many years before her, he had not met a single person – outside of Robert – who was not afraid of him, at least at some level. Even Kostmayer, brash as he was, understood that Control was lethal. Lily absolutely was not afraid. She'd been respectful enough, but she wasn't afraid, and he'd known that almost instantly. Pretty, willing, smart, and unafraid. He couldn't have resisted her even if he'd tried.

But then, Control mused, crossing the street, then things had changed. Secure in their set scenario, they'd let themselves drift into love, never once pausing to calculate the risks of that. Did you even know you loved me, Lily, he wondered, did you know before that horrible day in Nicaragua?

Until that moment he hadn't appreciated the soul-rending 'thunk' that had gone with her sudden realization that she wanted to live. In that place, in the situation she most wanted to escape, she had been forced to acknowledge that she had something to live for.

Him, of all things. _He_ was the reason she lived.

Had lived, he corrected. What did she live for now?

For the first time, slowly, it came to him that it was over. That Lily had thrown him not out of her apartment, but out of her life. With a start, he touched his jacket pocket. The emerald was still there. It was _over_. The knowledge stabbed through him like a blade in his heart, twisting, heating, digging. Over.

You understand her now, he thought bitterly, and she doesn't want you. She understands you, too, doesn't she?

Then he just walked, and tried not to think, and felt the blade twist.

He'd lost track of time. The cigar was long gone. He found himself turning a corner out of habit, and then he was on a familiar street. He stopped, his eyes narrowed in thought. He was two blocks north of Robert's apartment.

He shrugged. Well, go to McCall, why not? Confess everything and let his old friend lambaste him for the fool he was. Listen to the lecture and the outrage, and then maybe get some hint of how he might win the woman back. If there were any hope, Robert would know where to find it. Robert knew Lily nearly as well as Control did himself.

Then, half out of habit, Control dropped into the shadows as the dagger in his heart turned to ice. Robert did know her, didn't he? Robert adored her. Admired her. Thought of her like he thought of Manon.

Control closed his eyes. Robert had accused Control of betraying Lily. Lily had said much the same thing. That word, betrayal, that word was on everyone's lips these days, wasn't it? His best friend and his lover. They'd been in the field together, traveled together. Robert was so anxious to protect the woman, and the woman was so anxious to have Control gone.

Of course.

_Of course_.

He seethed with sudden rage. You talk of betrayal, he thought, my honorable friend, my trusted lover. You talk of betrayal because it is what's in your hearts. You talk of betrayal because you have already betrayed me.

They would have known that he'd never let her go without a fight. He could see it clearly. He and Lily would part, ended irrevocably in this firefight, and slowly, in time, she and Robert would come together. No. They would come together tonight, in secret, and every night, but only slowly reveal it to the world.

Robert and Lily. How could he have not seen it? How could he have ignored the potential, how could he have thrown them into each other's arms?

How could he have trusted the two of them so blindly, and allowed them to hurt him so badly?

Keeping to the shadows, he glided closer. He melted into the alley across from Robert's building. There were lights on in the windows, but no movement to be seen. Control's eyes narrowed, considering the approach to the apartment. Difficult, not impossible; he knew the layout as well as he knew his own home.

While he pondered, the Jaguar glided onto the street, as if drawn by Control's force of will. It parked at the curb, one door down from the building, directly in Control's line of sight. Robert climbed out, immaculately tailored as always, walked behind the car and opened the door for his companion. The woman climbed out …

Control hesitated. The woman in his gun sites was unexpectedly not Lily Romanov. This woman was older, heavier, taller …

_In his gun sites._

Control had no memory of drawing his weapon, no memory of aiming it at his friend, no memory of any intent to aim it at his lover …

Control, who had never in his life drawn his weapon on a person he did not intend to shoot. Who had never shot a person he did not intend to kill.

His hands began to shake, and the gun with them. He watched the gun drift down as if it belonged to someone else. Those trembling hands could not be his. He had not aimed his weapon at Robert and the woman. He had not intended to gun them down in the street from ambush. Had not, absolutely had not, planned to shoot them dead and then turn the gun on himself.

He had not.

There was no reason for the gun to be in his hands.

The tremble moved from his hands up his arms and then took his whole body. Control stood in the shadows, trembling violently, the gun clenched in his two hands but pointed now at the ground, while Robert and the woman went inside, safely out of his sight.

Control stepped backwards into the alley. He took another step, blindly, and then a third before his heel touched the trash can. He stopped then, safely away from the street, put his back to the wall, and let himself slide to the ground. He sat very still, with his back to the wall, his forearms on his knees, and the gun still in both hands. Bowed his head, and wished desperately that he still knew how to cry.

After a very, very long time, the trembling stopped. Control sighed and put his head back to look at the sky, but there was only the skeleton of a fire escape and then low clouds. He glanced around, aware for the first time of his surroundings. If the tie boys at the office could see him now. The great spy master, hunkered in an alley like a beaten dog …

… they would assume that he was spinning some outrageous, perfectly calculated scheme. Because the Control they knew would had no heart, and therefore no heart to be broken by a mere slip of a girl.

He wondered if he was going insane. It seemed distinctly possible.

Of course Robert had not betrayed him, had not seduced his Lily away. It would never even occur to Robert to do such a thing, and even if it had, his friend was far too honorable to act on such a notion. Likewise, Lily would not have betrayed him with Robert, or with anyone else. She loved him, completely and absolutely. He knew that to the very root of his soul. So why, Control wondered, was he sitting in an alley with his gun in his hands? Why, if Lily had been the woman in the Jaguar, would they all be dead now?

He already knew the answer. It was easier to believe that they had betrayed him than to accept the truth. This was not Robert's doing; Robert wasn't involved at all. And Lily hadn't broken Control's heart. He'd broken hers, and his own. Exactly as Becky had warned, weeks ago.

He understood Lily now, but Control couldn't begin to understand himself. He loved Lily. Why did he continue to hurt her? How could he keep making these same stupid mistakes that caused her such pain? All he wanted in the world was to keep Lily with him and to keep her happy. Why did he do idiotic things that were certain to drive her away?

It was utterly unlike him to make mistakes. Control did not make mistakes. But where Lily was concerned, every damn time …

His gaze turned to the gun in his hands. He tipped it, reflecting the streetlight off its barrel. It would be so easy just to put it to his temple and pull the trigger. He wasn't going to get Lily back anyhow; what difference would it make? Maybe she'd be relieved to have him gone. His heart felt like cold lead in his chest. He'd given it to her completely, and now that it was cut off from her, it beat only reluctantly, sluggish with grief. He saw his life ahead, days and years in that wretched office, no need to go home, no oasis from the job, nothing but Control, now and forever. The gun seemed like a far better alternative. Pull the trigger and be out.

With a heavy sigh, Control holstered the gun. He didn't possess the cowardice for suicide. Lily had endured far, far worse than a broken heart and had lived; he could not fail her by taking the shortcut out now. He had hurt her enough. He would not burden her with his death, too.

He felt old, and cold, and sick.

After a very long time, he pushed himself to his feet and walked down the alley, away from Robert's street, towards the river. His life dragged after him like Marley's ghostly chains. Nothing left now but the job. Nothing left now but Control. Lily was beyond his reach now, there would never be another like her, and he would never again be …

Be …

Control stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his face completely expressionless. He knew, with heart-rending clarity, exactly who he had been with Lily. Knowing that, he knew too why he'd driven her away.

He walked on, chilled to the bone. Years ago, before the Company, he had been a man. Not a simple man, never that, but a mortal man, an ordinary man. The Company had made him someone else, and had eventually made him Control. Control became more than his title, it became his persona, his life. Those few alive who still knew his real name never used it. He was Control, to everyone who knew him. And to himself.

Control was a shell to him, a safe retreat, no less than Lily's shell was to the child who had been Rose. He'd retreated into his shelter years and years ago, shut out everything that was not Control, which made him be human and mortal. Only Robert could still touch the man he'd been, and even with him, Control resisted fiercely. He wanted to be Control. He understood Control.

Susan had understood that retreat, had seen it coming and seen that it was hopeless to resist. Susan had not left him in Pamplona; he had shut her out and driven her away.

McCall had been on the same path. He, too, had become the job, so thoroughly, so ruthlessly, that he'd forced his wife away and abandoned his son. But then Robert had been granted a brief one-on-one with his God, and set himself to an entirely different road. Control had not been graced with such an epiphany, not until now. Now, when it was too late, when he'd shattered the heart of the last woman who would ever love him.

Lily had let him be the man he had been. Lily let him resume the life he'd given up. Her fearlessness had gotten under his shield, just as he'd gotten under hers. They'd connected at a level neither of them let themselves exist at. Somehow they'd found a place they could be safe, and their true selves, together. How could he not have loved her for that? How could he have resisted being closer, ever closer, to her?

But at the same time, her ability frightened him. It was difficult to be mortal, it was unsafe, and it was hard to stuff himself back into his tie and into Control when it was over. So he drove her away, he rushed her – God, how often had he rushed her? When she came back from Nicaragua, when he'd broken her to get to her heart. At the cabin, when she was too drunk to resist, he'd claimed her as his own. Even the emerald – if he'd given her another minute, she might have accepted it all on her own, but he hadn't waited, he'd made her take it. And now this road trip. He'd asked for her past, and she'd started to share it with him, but not fast enough to suit him. Take a year, he'd told her, take your time. Then he'd used his position and his authority to just take it. He had used his power to take what she would have given him of her own free will, if he had waited.

The only time he hadn't rushed her or pressured her was in bed. Never that. Not the first time, not ever. No, she had nothing to fear from the man. It was only when he was dressed that he became the monster who was Control.

He'd reached the river. He paused at the rail, one foot up on the bottom rung. He wasn't going to jump; he'd already decided against suicide, and in any case he would have used his gun. He stripped off his bow tie and held it out over the water, let it drift past his fingers on the breeze and fall. He would never wear a bow tie again.

Lily had asked if he was punishing her for not coming home when he wanted her to. He wasn't, he knew that now. He was punishing her for loving him. For accepting the emerald, for agreeing to be his. Because as long as she was his, he had to be the other man, the mortal, at least part of the time, for the rest of his life. Control could not tolerate that. It was too difficult, too terrifying. So he had to drive her away. Had to betray her, to force her to leave him, so that he could be only Control.

He had been brilliantly successful in that. Lily was absolutely done with him. There was no chance that she would ever forgive what he'd done. No way that she would ever come out of her shell again, at least not for him. Lily was gone.

Control stared at the river, the dark water that hid so much below the surface. He did not need to kill himself, not now. He was already dead inside. The one thing left to him now was to protect the girl as best he could. Help her, love her, let her get on with her life. Keep his mouth shut, keep his feelings hidden, and let her go. If he was to spend the rest of his life alone, trapped inside his job and inside his own head, it was the least of the punishment he deserved for what he'd done to her.

There was nothing else.

He devoutly wished he could die.

His pager beeped. Control jumped, startled by the sudden sound. Then he cursed and reached for the wretched thing, intent on hurling it, too, into the river. He did not want to be the job, not now. He wanted to hold on to the man, suffering though he was, for one more minute. His hand drew back. But then he stopped, sighed. It would do no good. They'd just issue him another one.

With deep hatred, he glanced at the number on the pager's display. Hesitated, then stared. The pager slipped out of his numb fingers and fell into the river.

Control spun around, looking frantically for a pay phone. Spotted one two corners up, and ran to it. Ran, dialed with frantic fingers, botched it and had to start again. Swore, tried to catch his breath, couldn't see the damn numbers for the tears in his eyes – _now_ he knew how to cry? Finally, finally got through, heard half a ring, and then her voice.

"Are you all right?" Lily asked, very quietly, before he could speak.

He drew a deep, shaky breath. Could she possibly know him that well, to know that he was standing on the bank of the river, wishing for death? Could she possibly still care?

"There's this frog," he began, very quietly, "who meets a scorpion on the bank of a river. The scorpion can't swim, so he asks the frog to carry him across the river on his back. The frog says no, you're a scorpion and if I let you climb on my back you'll sting me for sure. But the scorpion answers, if I sting you, then you'll die and I'll drown, why would I do that? Give me a ride on your back and I swear I won't sting you. So the frog takes him on his back and starts across the river. Halfway across, the scorpion stings him. The frog looks back and says, why did you do that? Now I'll die and you'll drown. And the scorpion answers, it's my nature to sting you, and you knew that when you took me on your back."

There was a long pause. "Are you calling me an ignorant amphibian?"

He could have wept at her feeble attempt at a joke. "No. And being a scorpion is no excuse. Can I come back? Can I talk to you? Just talk, I swear. Please?"

A second pause. "Yeah," she finally answered, and hung up.

He started walking, briskly, hoping against logic for a cab, hoping he could produce one by force of will. Got ten blocks before it occurred to him that he should have boosted the Jag. He hesitated, about to go back, when a cab turned onto the block in front of him and stopped to disgorge its passengers. The driver seemed startled; Control over-paid him in advance, which stilled his questions.

Lily let him in, then retreated. She looked every bit as hollow as she had when he'd left. She was very frightened now, and it seemed to cost her great effort even to look at him. Control ached to grab her, to comfort her, but he knew he couldn't. He'd relinquished any right to that. He'd cut her to the bone. The best he could hope for now was to staunch her wounds a little before he went away.

"When I found out you weren't dead," he began, without preamble, "I swore up and down I'd never hurt you again. I swore. I never meant for this to happen. I never wanted … I know why, I know some of why, finally. But the why doesn't excuse what I've done. And saying I'm sorry doesn't excuse it. There is nothing I can say to make this right."

Lily gave a half-nod of agreement, studying his shoes.

"I want you to know," he continued, "that I will make everything as easy as I can for you. I'll get you out if you want, or I'll post you anywhere you want to go. Just tell me and it's yours. Understand?"

She nodded miserably.

"And this is yours." He took the emerald out of his pocket. She made no move, so he dropped it onto the coffee table. "That was the agreement, from the start, that it was yours no matter what happened between us. I'm not taking it back." He took a deep breath of her silence. "I am so sorry, Lily."

Her eyes came up to meet his. They were full of tears, but she managed to hold the gaze. "We're really done, aren't we?"

"I think we are, love."

She swallowed hard. "Because of what you did, or because of what I did?"

The question caught Control completely by surprise. It had not occurred to him that she might think he was rejecting her. As if he had any right to reject her or judge her. "Because of what _I_ did," he said emphatically. "Because of what I _am_."

Lily nodded and looked away.

For the first time, Control felt a glimmer, just a glimmer, of impossible hope. "I don't know anything about forgiveness, Lily. I have no right to even to ask for it. Especially for this. I know exactly what I've done; I know how much I've hurt you. But … God, Lily, is there any hope? Is there _any_ way we can get through this? Or have I really destroyed it all this time?"

Her eyes came back up. She started to speak, then stopped.

She hadn't said no. Control took a step toward her, stopped when she retreated the same distance. "Lily, please. If there is any chance … I'll do anything. I'll tear my heart from my chest and crawl to you with it beating in my hands. I will beg at your feet. Just tell me what you want. Anything. Anything."

She stirred, just a little. "Will you quit your job and come live with me on the beach?"

Control could not have been more surprised if she'd drawn a knife and stabbed him through the heart. He could not have been any more hurt, either. "Lily …"

"Will you?" she insisted

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it and turned away. Quit his job? Even if it was possible, how could she ask that of him? Give up everything he'd built his whole life? Give up the power? Abandon those whom he served, who desperately needed him? Leave the security of the world in the hands of idiots like Jason Masur? Quit his job …

… sleep with the windows open, wake in warm breezes with Lily in his arms. Walk on the hot white sand, watch her splash in the surf, maybe a dog at her heels, maybe a chubby toddler or two. No ties, no guns, no shoes even. No telephones. Hold her in firelight in the evenings, tumble her into bed late and laughing, and wake the next morning to do it all again …

He could feel it all, and he wanted it so badly it hurt. And yet, and yet.

He wanted desperately to say yes. He could feel the beach pull at him – and he could feel the job pull him back. Control, and the man he would have been if her were not Control. The two lives tore his soul between them. And she knew. Somehow she knew. "I would if I could," he finally said, miserably.

Lily's face lightened, softened. "Well, at least that was honest."

"It wasn't even an answer."

"It wasn't a fair question."

"It wasn't fair when I asked you, either."

She shrugged. "I never expected you to play fair."

"Lily … "

"Here's the thing," she said quickly, "I am hurt and frightened, and I feel horribly betrayed, and I am furious at you. And my life would be much, much simpler if I could just hate you for it."

Hope pounded through Control's veins, refusing to be tempered by reason. "But?"

"But I love you," Lily said simply. He stared at her, bewildered, so she went on. "You don't know, still, what a miracle you are to me. You don't know here." She touched her chest over her heart. "From the night I left Tennessee, I knew that I would never love anybody, and that nobody would ever be able to love me. I knew that I was too broken, too damaged. That I was going to be alone, always. And then there was you, my one insane, impossible chance, and I took that chance, and I let myself love you. And I let myself believe that you could love me. I don't regret that, even now. I wouldn't take it back. I never should have had it at all. I love you, and I will always love you, and only you. I'm not fool enough to think there will ever be another miracle." She took a shaky breath. "Knowing what you know now, knowing who I am … if you still want me, if you still want us to be together … we'll find a way."

Lead began flesh again, and he could feel his heart pounding. She loved him, she loved him still. Tears, again. "It's what I want more than anything."

Control moved toward her. She did not retreat, but she held a hand up. "But," she continued, "we can't go on this way, either. We can't. One more round like this and one of us will end up dead. Not figuratively, but oozing on the carpet dead."

He nodded seriously. She had no idea how close that was to true. Or perhaps she did. "One of us, or all of us." He could still see Robert in his gun sites, and that woman – who was that woman, anyhow? – who so fortunately was not Lily. She was absolutely right. If this relationship was going to survive, and if they were going to survive it, it had to change, drastically and immediately. "Tell me what to do."

"God, I was hoping you knew." She shook her head, gestured to the couch. They both sat down, still with careful distance between them. "First, I guess, is this: we need to stop pretending that we're either of us normal people. We pretend wonderfully, and for the outside world that's fine, but for us, here, we have to stop denying what we are."

"What are we, Lily?"

"You're a scorpion," Lily answered immediately, "and I'm a psychopath."

"You're _not_ …"

"_Kedves_, normal children do not do what I did. Normal children _cannot_ do what I did."

"A normal child would have died there."

"I know. And I have no guilt about it, I swear. Which is only more proof of what I am. Not like normal people. Not in my soul. I'm not. And neither are you."

Control considered this a long, long moment. He didn't agree with her characterization of herself, but she was dead on about him. Normal people did not rip apart their loved ones the way he had. Normal people did not do any of the thousand other things he had done in his life. "All right. All right. And then what?"

"And then I want..." she began, and then she simply stopped.

"What, Lily? Anything you want."

She sat back and studied him for a long moment. "And then I want you. I want to know who you are. Who you really are."

Control shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I want to know you. I want to know everything about you."

There was a long pause. Control shook his head ruefully. "Can I reconsider the job-and-beach thing? It would be easier."

"You know everything about me."

"No, I don't. There are years still I don't know anything about. High school, college …"

"You're changing the subject."

"Trying to, desperately." He threw himself to his feet and paced. "Do you even _know_ what you're asking? Do you know what a target you'd be, if anyone ever found out what you knew?"

"I don't want Company secrets. I just want you."

"They're one and the same, love. And there are things about me that no one knows. _No one_. You're asking me to just give all of that to you, to just … "

Lily looked down at the floor again. "It's your choice," she answered quietly.

It was. Whatever he chose to tell her about his past, it was his to decide. As it should have been hers – and instead he'd taken it, ripped all of her secrets away. Yet this wasn't an ultimatum, a demand for parity. She'd never expected him to play fair.

It was very, very tempting. As tempting as the beach had been. To let her know him completely, entirely. To tell her the unvarnished truth. To trust that she would love him anyhow …

_She would love him anyhow. _

"This," he said suddenly, spinning around. "This first. Before I met you, I was entirely Control. Only Control, nearly all the time, only the job. You make me be human again. I cherish that beyond all words. But it terrifies me. I didn't know until tonight, but it terrifies me. I make mistakes with you, stupid mistakes, mistakes that Control would never make – because I'm _not_ Control when I'm with you. I'm … whoever I was before I took the job. I love that, Lily, I love being that man, but I barely recognize him. So I pull you closer, so I can be him, and then I hurt you, because you make me be him. It doesn't make any sense, even to me, but it's the truth."

Lily stood up and moved to him, slowly. Control had to fight down his own urge to retreat – to go hide under the bed. She read it in him, stopped a step away. "The emerald, and the road trip. Come closer, go away."

"Yes. Yes." He was deeply gratified that she understood. "But writ large. Stay with me forever, but hate me forever. I didn't know, Lily. I swear I didn't realize until now. I didn't _ever_ mean to hurt you."

She nodded, swallowed hard. Reached out and took his hand, very softly, in hers.

"If you want him," Control continued, "I'll try. I'm not even sure I know how, but I'll try. There are a handful of things that I can't tell you, that aren't mine to tell. The rest of it – anything. Anything you want to know. I'll try."

Lily nodded. "Thank you."

"But I get your missing years, too."

"They're boring, but you can have them."

They stood and studied each other for a long moment. "I don't know where to start," Control finally admitted.

"You take off your jacket," Lily said softly. "We figure out how to make the samovar work. And then - I think we start with your real name. Yes?"

"Yes. God, yes."

She started out past him. He snagged her hand, just by the fingertips. She paused at the touch. "Stay," he said, an echo of a question from long, long ago. "Please, will you stay?"

"Always," Lily answered. She moved closer still, her lips soft and gentle against his. "I am yours, always."

"And I," Control answered, "am yours." He trembled again, tears in his voice, willing and terrified and full of joy.


	24. Chapter 24

Mira looked around the apartment while Robert refilled their drinks. "I don't understand, Robert."

"What's that?"

She gestured around the room. "You've seen how I live. What in the world are you doing on a date with me?"

Robert chuckled. "I have come to learn that there is usually more to people than first impressions. I'm sure we have a great many difference between us, some of them perhaps insurmountable, but our living style is not one of them. I have not had a more enjoyable evening since … oh, I can't remember when." It was flattery, but it was also absolutely true. The ships had been interesting, and the Mira's company fascinating. She was not only well educated and well spoken, she was astonishingly funny. "I am very much hoping that I may see you again."

"I would like that," she answered simply.

McCall considered for a moment. It was early, this first date, for this conversation, but he liked this woman very much. It seemed best to get it out of the way. "Mira. I would like you to know what I do."

"Scott says you're retired from the government."

"Well, yes. Mostly retired." He reached into his pocket, drew out his wallet, and retrieved from it a neatly clipped copy of his Equalizer ad. "But I also do … this."

Mira took the ad and read it. She looked up at him, back at the ad, back at him. Returned the ad carefully. "Am I supposed to run away now?" she asked with quiet amusement.

"No, of course not. Well. Perhaps. Any woman with a modicum of common sense would at least give it some thought."

"You must have some fascinating stories to tell."

"A few, I suppose."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Sometimes."

Mira nodded thoughtfully. "The obvious question is 'why', but I don't think we're quite there yet, are we?"

"Well, no," Robert admitted.

"Then why bring it up now?"

McCall hesitated. "Because I like you very much," he admitted honestly. "Very much. And if you are going to run, which would be the entirely sensible thing to do, then I would prefer that you did it before I kissed you."

"Oh." She sat and looked at him patiently. "I am not running," she pointed out. "You might as well proceed with the kissing."

"Ah." Pleasantly invited, Robert kissed her, gently. As he drew away, she drew him closer, and the kiss deepened. "Ah," he said again as they parted. "Well. I suppose I should take you home now."

Mira nodded. "I suppose a respectable woman would insist on that."

He kissed her again, this time with his arms sliding around her, drawing her closer to him. "Yes. Definitely. Driving you home now."

"Without further delay," she agreed, closing for a third kiss. But when they parted again, she sighed. "God, but I hate this."

"I'm sorry," Robert answered, quickly moving to release her.

"No, not this. This whole respectable expectation thing. It's perfectly ridiculous, at my age, to have to pretend because it's our first date that I'm not … and yet I don't want you to think … "

McCall chuckled warmly. "If thou think'st I am too quickly won," he quoted, "I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, so thou wilt woo, but else, not for the world."

"I don't think I've ever liked Shakespeare at all until this moment," she purred.

"I would think," Robert assured her, "that you are a woman who knows what she wants, and I would be pleased and honored that what you want is me." He drew her closer and kissed her yet again, with intent. "Please," he murmured, "please, will you stay?"

THE END


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